In Restless Dreams I Walked Alone
by theredwagon
Summary: D'Artagnan struggles to prove his worth, to the regiment and to himself, as the Musketeers march northward in the first few months of the war. This story is complete and will be posted as I edit.
1. Chapter 1

In Restless Dreams I Walked Alone - theredwagon

This is an AU story that takes place between season 2 and 3, when we don't know if the others had been able to convince Aramis to go to war with them. In this story, he does. I did very little historical research but the Musketeers would most likely have been sent north during the first few months of the war and at some point begin to take heavy losses from Spanish lighting attacks, before managing to push the Spanish back towards the Northern border, keeping them out of Paris. The time line and exact locations are not historically accurate because this is fiction and I am taking artistic license and all that. The title of the story is from the song "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel, no disrespect intended.

 **Disclaimer** ; No money being made, no harm intended.

 **Summary** ; D'Artagnan struggles to prove his worth, to the regiment and to himself, as the Musketeers march north in the first few months of the war.

Chapter 1 

D'Artagnan's first kill in battle was like nothing he had ever expected.

In this duty as a Musketeer he'd had the unhappy fortune to have injured or killed more men than he could ever remember. Those first few months in Paris, he'd kept a tally, for the confessional, scratched on the wall behind his bed in Constance's home, and later in his quarters at the Garrison. As time passed though that tally began to weigh so heavily on his heart and his conscience that he could no longer continue to mark the deaths he was responsible for, not even if it meant the damnation of his immortal soul.

The first man d'Artagnan had killed in battle was not a bandit or a traitor or a mercenary; he was not someone who had charged at d'Artagnan with a bloodlust to kill him for monetary gain or some warped sense of honor. The first man he'd killed was probably no older than 18 or 19, his uniform noticeably too large on his thin frame, the beard on his face no more than a few straggly hairs on the youth's chin. But it was the look in his eyes that would haunt d'Artagnan for months to come. The boy was terrified. He was no seasoned soldier fighting for king and country by choice; he was most likely some boy from a farm, much like d'Artagnan himself, pressed into service against his will and against his conscience. Regardless, d'Artagnan simply had no choice, not when the boy raised his pistol with trembling hands and aimed at the Gascon's head, sweat rolling down his sunburned skin, his face twisted into a horrified mask of indecision and terror. D'Artagnan swiftly shot the boy at close range, ensuring the younger man a quick and merciful death, before he could so the same to him or one of his brothers.

At the time, it had seemed as if everything was moving in slow-motion; The boy raising his pistol, d'Artgnan shooting him and watching the boy's body fall, it seemed to take hours instead of seconds, and by the time he'd recovered his wits, another man was charging him, not a boy but a man; an angry, bloodthirsty man who managed to take a swipe at d'Artagnan's left arm with his sword before the Gascon ran him through with his own. After that, the battle continued for at least half a day, Athos periodically calling for his men to retreat and regroup before charging once again, the older man's voice hoarse from screaming orders on the hot, smoke-filled battle field for hours on end.

That had been in June, just a few weeks after d'Artagnan had left Paris and his new bride behind him for what would end up being a four year span at the front. It was now 5 months into that long stretch of time, and in his worst nightmares d'Artagnan could have never imagined that they'd be fighting for years and not months, not when they'd left the Garrison so full of false bravado and determination to send those Spanish bastards back to their King with their tails between their legs in no time.

To say that their first summer had been difficult would be an understatement. The summer had been hell, if hell had swarms of mosquitoes, vile diseases of the bowel, festering wounds that would not heal and a pit of amputated limbs buzzing with green flies and occupied by starving rats. D'Artagnan had experienced disease and death before, but certainly not to that extent or level of misery. They often went hungry, sometimes without enough potable water, and they hardly ever had enough medical supplies. But at least in the summer they could wash their clothes and bathe. The days had been warm enough to immerse their blood and grime stained bodies in the lakes and streams they encountered on the march north, but the weather had turned on them quickly and from September and on, the further north they marched, the colder it became, forcing them to make do with dusty clothes, wet rags and buckets of freezing cold water.

It's November and the countryside looks barren, and it's colder in the north of France than most of the men are accustomed to. The Musketeers' camp is halfway between General DuBois headquarters, a half hour's ride to the south, and a few leagues from the closest Spanish regiment to the north, a precarious position, no doubt, but it is territory hard-gained and the General will not give it up. Their location is the reason for their frequent skirmishes; Spanish scouts and patrols grow bolder by the day as they try to gain territory further south, their goal eventually, to reach Paris. Earlier that week, Aramis, - coaxed out of his self-imposed exile when they'd reached Douai in July - had taken on the role of the regiment's medic after the death of their previous medical officer, a man who had been an actual physician. With no other suitable candidates to take the physician's place, the job had been impressed upon Aramis despite his protestations that his skills were limited. But the General hadn't cared enough to listen to his concerns and now, just a few days after being appointed medic his shirtsleeves were stained up to his elbows by the blood of at least a dozen young soldiers, d'Artagnan's included. The young Gascon had taken a slice to his thigh and despite the fact that it hadn't needed stitching it still needed cleaning and care, as Athos had insisted angrily, when d'Artagnan had waved it off as 'a scratch'.

In the Captain's tent, the only one large enough for them to congregate aside from the mess tent, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and a dozing d'Artagnan have gathered to discuss the early morning skirmish that had been the cause of d'Artagnan's injury . The three older men sit on empty powder barrels, washed free of their dangerous black dust and commandeered by d'Artagnan for that very purpose. There is a larger wine cask they use as a table and the younger man often bemoaned the fact that his ingenious furniture would have to be left behind the next time they break camp. On the ground, wrapped in his cloak and with his doublet as a pillow, the boy himself dozes fitfully, wiry frame shivering now and again from the cold. Athos takes the rough blanket off his cot and covers the younger man with a tired sigh.

"I told him to use my cot," Athos says flatly, "and he declined because his uniform is filthy… as if mine is ever clean."

"I'll take the cot if he won't," Porthos says with a wide grin but the big man doesn't actually make a move from his perch on the barrel.

"Aramis…the injured?" Athos asks quietly, being mindful of their youngest, who will have no choice but to fight the following day, injured or not. At least if he gets a decent night's sleep the odds will lean closer in his favour.

"Fourteen, but no life-threatening injures for the moment, providing they manage to avoid infections, only a few are actually still in the infirmary."

"And the lad?" he asks, concerned, indicating their sleeping comrade on the ground between them.

Aramis grimaces. "No stitches, but it pains him, I could tell by his movements this evening," the medic notes unhappily.

"Yes, well, there's not much I can do for him, if he can walk tomorrow he will have to fight, we are already spread thin," Athos tells them regretfully. "A quarter of our regiment is gone and we've only been away from Paris for five months. I can't imagine how we will survive the winter at this pace," Athos says, his expression fraught with worry.

"Well, if we filled our ranks with all of those generals and so-called officers watching the war from atop their horses, using their spyglasses and drinking wine, we'd be able to take out the Spanish twice over," Porthos tells them angrily. "They've got proper beds in their tents, did you know that? And the lad's sleeping on the freezing ground with a nasty gash in his leg, as are another 13 injured men! I've never questioned my duty, Athos, but to say that I'm frustrated would be an understatement," Porthos spits, thoroughly disgusted.

"Brother, everything you say is God's own truth but you know that there is nothing to be done about it. We are Musketeers, Porthos, paid soldiers, enrolled in this regiment voluntarily, with an oath to put our King and country above all else. It's not as if we didn't know the way of things," Athos reasons, though he certainly shares Porthos' sentiments. On the ground, d'Artagnan stirs and Aramis kneels beside him and touches his face and neck. "No fever for now," he tells Athos and the medic shakes him gently.

"D'Artagnan, come on, lad, time to sleep."

D'Artagnan groans. "I am sleeping, you fool," he replies churlishly.

"Yes indeed, but your bedroll in your tent is considerably warmer and slightly more comfortable. Would you like Porthos to carry you?" Aramis asks innocently.

"NO," the younger man replies forcefully, and he turns to Athos to help him to his feet. The Captain checks the younger Musketeer himself for any signs of fever, only to have his hand slapped away by an annoyed d'Artagnan.

"Why are you all pawing at me? I'm fine, it's just a scratch."

"Pawing at you? That sounds rather naughty, lad, should I even ask?" Aramis questions cheekily.

D'Artagnan rolls his eyes, collects the weapons and turns to leave. "Do we have orders yet Captain?"

Athos' mouth tightens. "Unfortunately, yes. The General has decided he's had enough of the surprise attacks on our camps, we are to launch our own tomorrow. You'll take nine men and make your way towards the Spanish camp two leagues north of here. You leave tomorrow at dusk, our main objective is to take out their powder and damage their supplies. The three of you will be in charge with Aramis taking the lead, and I expect you to make our regiment proud."

"Don't we always?" Porthos says and puts an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders, steering him towards the tent flap. "Come on, lad, we have a nice, freezing cold tent waiting for us," he says and he tugs the younger man along with him. Athos watches as d'Artagnan follows with a noticeable limp, but the fact that he doesn't appear to be fevered or in any inordinate amount of pain is a huge relief.

"If I may take my leave as well, captain," Aramis says, settling his hat over his unruly dark hair, "I need to check on my patients."

"Get some sleep, brother, tomorrow will be difficult, most of the men have never taken part in a raid of this kind before, best to be on your toes," Athos says.

Aramis nods knowingly, worry creasing his brow, but he remains silent as he departs. Orders are orders, and the Musketeers have long ago learned it's not their place to question them.

When he is alone, Athos strips off his weapons and his boots and instead of sleeping as he has encouraged the others to do, he spends the next few hours worrying about everything that can go wrong with the General's plan.

* * *

It takes Porthos a good quarter of an hour to get d'Artagnan to cooperate, the boy tiredly resisting Porthos' attempts to get him to remove his filthy clothing, mostly so he can mend the tear in his leather breeches and sneak a peek at the bandage under his drawers. To his consternation, Porthos sees fresh stains on the shredded linen on the lad's right thigh where he'd bled through his bandages and he hands d'Artagnan a clean pair of drawers from his saddle bags with the threat to take off the torn, bloodstained ones him himself if he doesn't comply. Cursing loudly, d'Artagnan has no choice but to obey. Once he's redressed in clean undergarments and moth-eaten shirt he wears to sleep, Porthos practically manhandles him to the ground and onto his bedroll where he pulls up the lad's knee-length drawers to get a look at the slash on d'Artagnan's thigh. Grumbling, the older man finds some bandages and a flask of brandy in his saddlebags and he quickly sets about cleaning and re-wrapping the lad's injury.

"Why are you such a mule-headed child?" Porthos grouses, removing his weapons, belts and doublet. He finds a needle and thread in his saddlebags and sitting on his bedroll he careful begins to stitch d'Artagnan's breeches as well as he can with the meager light from the lantern beside him.

"Why are you such a worried old hag?" d'Artagnan retorts, huddled under the rough, military-issue blanket they've each been allotted. Even in the semi-darkness of their tent, Porthos can see that all is not right with the younger man.

"Because you never watch after yourself, you seem to think your invincible, swords and pistols can't fell the mighty d'Artagnan," Porthos says with thinly veiled anger. "I've been sorely tempted more than once to put you over my knee, like a naughty child."

D'Artagnan lets out a hearty chuckle. "I'd love to see you try, Auntie Porthos. You know, you do resemble an old auntie of mine now that I think of it, especially with that needle and thread and your mock-stern expression, yes, it's uncanny, aside from the beard of course," the lad teases, laughing at his own anecdote, "Although I do remember her having a few dark hairs on her chin."

Porthos finishes his sewing and throws the breeches across the tent at D'Artagnan. "You're welcome," he says, putting the precious needle and thread back in their place in his bag before snuffing out the lantern.

"Thanks, brother," the lad tells him sincerely, his voice soft in the silence of their shared tent.

"D'Artagnan, you promised Constance you would return. I was there, you swore to her that you would do everything in your power to make it back home in once piece, what's changed?" Porthos asks, gravely concerned for what he sees as d'Artagnan's flippant attitude towards his own safety.

Porthos can hear the other man moving about, and a loud hiss follows as d'Artagnan tries to sit up. "Why do you think I don't care?" the lad asks, sounding indignant.

"Because you're first in the fray, last to be tended to and you hide your discomfort and your pain as if you feel the need to suffer in silence."

D'Artagnan lets out a snort. "Did it ever occur to you that I have no choice in the matter? That although I have been raised to a position of authority in this regiment that the other Musketeers still look at me as a green boy? You and Aramis and Athos have proved yourselves to them a thousand times over, these men expect me to do the same or else they will not follow me," the younger man explains carefully, his voice wavering with the uncertainty that he has just confessed to a surprised Porthos. "The first sign of weakness and I will be the laughing stock of the regiment, the boy dressed in his father's clothes, pretending to be a grown-up."

Porthos is silent. He hadn't even considered that the lad would be feeling this way. He'd always seen d'Artagnan as an equal, literally from day one, and the boy had achieved what the rest of them had over the course of a decade in just two short years. He was more than worthy of a position of authority in their regiment, but he could understand why d'Artagnan would feel the need to prove himself to the others, most of whom were older than him by years.

Porthos sighs and pulls his blanket up to his neck, the cold seeping into his bones from beneath his bedroll and through the flimsy canvas walls of their tent. "Alright, I respect your answer, but amongst us, when it's just the four of us, you don't need to always have your guard up, d'Artagnan. You can feel pain and weakness and exhaustion and the rest of us will think no less of you for it. I've heard what you've had to say, but this is the last time you keep something important for me, from us, are we clear?"

"Yes, mother," the lad replies and Porthos feels himself relax somewhat.

"Now I want an honest answer; is your wound paining you? Do you feel sick or feverish?"

He hears d'Artagnan sigh and settle back into his bedroll. "Some pain, yes, but it's manageable. I'll have Aramis look at it first thing, alright?"

"Agreed, we'll go together, I'm not sure if I trust you fully just yet," Porthos says with a yawn.

"Porthos?"

"Yes, lad?"

"I've never actually led a raiding party before," d'Artagnan admits.

Porthos feels his chest tighten. "I know, but it'll be the three of us together and you'll be fine. Most important thing to remember is that the men must follow your orders, so just keep up what you've been doing, I know for a fact that more than one man is afraid of your wrath," Porthos says, chuckling.

"Really, who?" the younger man asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

"Well, Lacroix for one. A few weeks ago, when you were having a go at them over missing supplies, that boy was shaking so hard in fear he literally took two steps back when you approached him, it was hysterical."

"Surely you're joking."

"On my mother's grave, he looked ready to shit his pants…or cry, maybe both. And Bonet; I saw him cross himself once when you passed, said that your must be the 'actual spawn of the devil' to be so unafraid of the Spanish, his exact words."

"Now you're definitely having me on, Porthos, that's absurd," d'Artagnan scoffs.

"I'm not, I swear. Look, don't worry, just give clear orders and make sure the men know who's in charge, everything will be fine."

"Of course it will," the lad says with confidence in voice, a loud yawn following.

"Bedtime now, I still might put you over my knee, you know."

"Promises, promises," d'Artagnan says and Porthos can't help but laugh.

There's no further sound from the younger man and Porthos assumes he has finally fallen asleep. They are all equals, in battle they rely on each other completely and they've never once shown any special deference to the lad, no need to since he is fiercer than any two soldiers put together. Hearing him voice his insecurities is somewhat jarring. It was easier for Porthos to think he is reckless and careless than to worry that the younger man doubts himself. But at least now there will be no more hidden injuries and the lad no longer needs to keep his worries and fears bottled up and to himself.

At least, that's what he hopes, Porthos thinks, just before exhaustion pulls him under and puts an end to his worries for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

I found a few errors in the previous chapter, so I've used Grammarly,Word and the spellchecker here at this site to double and triple check this chapter, if you find a mistake, please point it out to me! Also, British spellcheck was used because were I live British English is used for both writing and speaking (slang etc). Thank you for the follows and the favourites and especially for the reviews, Debbie and Tidia xx Please see author's notes at the end.

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

The morning brings rain which inevitably brings misery; cold, wet clothing, muddy ground, jittery horses. Athos' Musketeers rise at daybreak, go about their duties and shuffle into the mess tent for a breakfast of stale bread and lukewarm potage, made with ingredients no one can actually identify but it's filling, if not necessarily tasty. D'Artagnan is seated on a rickety bench made of tied tree branches and bits of broken wagon, the table in front of him much of the same construction. Aramis makes his way to the younger man and sits down across from him.

"Don't move around too much, you might find yourself on your arse in the dirt," d'Artagnan warns, indicating the peculiar furniture that has found its way into the mess tent, and Aramis laughs.

"Marks for effort though, someone has clearly put quite a bit of it into making these. You didn't come to the infirmary, I expected you," Aramis scolds.

"I will, as soon as we're done here. Believe it or not, I was actually hungry," he says, showing Aramis his empty bowl. The boy looks tired and pensive, the medic notes, but fortunately not feverish.

"That's a welcome change, you barely eat any more, it's a good thing you at least scavenge the countryside for apples and pears, Constance would flog the lot of us if she could see her husband now," Aramis tells him with a grimace. He's been concerned with both d'Artagnan's _and_ Athos' lack of appetite but doesn't fault them for it; the food they are served is often bland and tasteless, the grains and potatoes mostly stale and mouldy.

For a fleeting moment, at the mention of Constance, Aramis sees d'Artagnan's expression soften and he fidgets with his wedding band, the gold once shiny and new is now scratched and dulled but the boy has never once taken it off to put away for safekeeping, its presence on his finger more like a talisman, Aramis thinks, than a symbol of their union since neither of them had ever needed a piece of parchment or a ring of metal to validate their love. The moment is gone and d'Artagnan lets his left hand fall to his side, his expression once again shuttered.

Athos enters the mess tent, Porthos in tow, their clothes damp from the steady drizzle. The Captain indicates that they should follow him deeper into the tent and away from the bulk of the men and Aramis and d'Artagnan get to their feet at once.

"Porthos and I have just returned from the General's headquarters. I asked General DuBois to delay the mission a day or two due to the rain but he refused my request outright without even hearing my argument," Athos says, clearly seething. "His inflated ego blinds his judgment. How can we set the fuses to blow the powder in the rain and the mud?"

"Well, we can always shoot the barrels?" Porthos suggests, placing bowls of food for himself and Athos on the table in front of them.

"We'd have to get dangerously close for that, Porthos," Aramis says, doubtful. "The explosion would probably kill the man or men who'd take on the task."

"What if we could lay the fuses on something, maybe flour sacks, they are thick and should stay relatively dry and they're easy to burn," D'Artagnan asks.

"Too risky, it would take too long, and the sacks could become saturated by the time we're actually ready to light the fuses, leaving us back where we started. No, someone needs to get close enough to shoot the barrels and be fast enough to run like the devil is on his heels," Aramis tells them grimly, knowing full well how dangerous such a task would be.

Athos pushes the bowl away from him and lets out a frustrated breath, turning to D'Artagnan. "Lad, you're probably the only one quick enough and agile enough to pull this off," the Captain tells him, clearly not pleased to be suggesting it.

Porthos growls. "Quick and agile under normal circumstances Athos, but the boy is injured!" he argues heatedly.

D'Artagnan turns to Porthos, his expression indignant. "The _boy_ is standing right beside you, brother, and he is perfectly fine," he hisses.

Porthos throws his arms up in the air in a gesture of frustration. "I thought we discussed this last night, about you being honest and not hiding your injuries."

"D'Artagnan, I'm not sure your leg injury will allow you to undertake this mission," Aramis tells him logically, mindful of the lad's pride.

"You can't seriously mean that!"

Athos looks torn, his worry stamped all over his tired face. "Gentlemen, I am open to suggestions."

"I will do it," Aramis says quickly, "I am the most skilled with firearms, there isn't another man in the regiment who can handle a harquebus like I can."

Porthos lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "All that might be true, brother, but you'll be caught in the fireball for sure, there's no way you'll be able to outrun the explosion, I didn't realise this was a suicide mission, Athos!"

"Athos, it has to be me. I can get just close enough to aim for the powder kegs furthest away from me. With no extra armour or weapons to weigh me down I will have enough time to get away before the rest go up," D'Artagnan reasons.

"You can't know that! How can you know that the barrels won't all go up at once…and what if you miss the shot, what then? The gunfire will bring the entire Spanish regiment down on you! Athos, this is mad!" Aramis objects, furious.

D'Artagnan crosses his arms over his chest and balks. "I'm not an idiot, Aramis! And you're right, no one can predict how a wagon full of gunpowder will react to a single shot from a harquebus, but I'm willing to try, especially if it will keep the Spanish from using that power against us!"

"You will literally have seconds to get away," Porthos says slowly. "If the powder is well protected and dry, the lot of it will probably all go up at once. You'll need to move while your shot is still in the air; do you understand this, D'Artagnan?"

"Lad, this is something I am loathe to ask of you," their Captain tells d'Artagnan, clearly troubled, "but even if I defy my orders and step aside DuBois will still be sending the Musketeers on this mission tonight and someone else will be shooting those barrels…at least if it's you I know there's an excellent chance that you will succeed…and survive."

Aramis hits the rickety table with the flat of his hand, livid. "Not a chance, Athos! I have more experience and I am not in danger of leaving behind a grieving widow!"

"There's nothing more to discuss, Aramis, d'Artagnan has willingly agreed to do this… _if_ he is deemed fit for battle, that is," Athos concedes.

"Well since _I_ will be the judge of d'Artagnan's fitness for this mission as the regiment's medic we will discuss this again as soon as I have a look at his leg, agreed?" Aramis counters, secretly praying to find the boy even the slightest bit impaired. He feels guilty wishing pain on the lad but he prefers him alive and in a bit of pain as opposed to blown to bits all over the countryside.

"Fine!" d'Artagnan says, fuming, and begins to unlace his breeches.

"In the _infirmary_ , d'Artagnan," Aramis clarifies and he leaves the mess tent, a seething d'Artagnan following close behind.

When they reach the infirmary, d'Artangnan strips sullenly, pointedly avoiding Aramis' gaze.

"Spit it out, lad, you look like you're about to have a fit," Aramis says wearily.

"You and Porthos seem to enjoy making me look weak and foolish in front of Athos," d'Artagnan replies coldly as the older man cuts away at his bandage, "You know damn well that I can do this!"

"I did not say that you couldn't, I simply said I was more experienced and you are carrying an injury," Aramis clarifies, exasperated, cleaning the blood away from the scab on the lad's leg to see examine the wound carefully.

"There's no swelling or redness around the gash and it seems to have already begun to scab over," Aramis admits, applying clean linen to the wound. "You're fit for duty," he says reluctantly, "but I will be waiting nearby, just in case something goes wrong… agreed?"

D'Artagnan tightens his mouth, his expression less defiant but still not pleased. "Fine, we will do it your way, but only on the condition that I will be in charge of my part of the mission, as ordered by Athos."

"Agreed," Aramis says readily, deeply relieved that the lad has agreed to meet him halfway. He probably would have braved the boy's wrath and followed him anyway, just to make sure everything went according to plan and he didn't get himself blown to bits.

D'Artagnan dresses hurriedly and moves to leave. "Thank you," he says after a pause, his expression visibly softened. "I just…well I suppose I was worried you would undermine the authority and the trust that Athos has placed in me," D'Artagnan adds, clearly embarrassed for his earlier outburst.

"I would never do that willingly, lad _,_ unless I had valid reservations about your health or the safety of the rest of the men would I ever suggest to Athos to make you dispensable. Now that I see that you have no signs of infection or swelling, I won't stand in the way of you accepting your part in the mission," Aramis tells him truthfully.

D'Artagnan's mouth twists into a ghost of a smile. "As long as you're somewhere close by of course."

"Would you not do the same for me if our positions were reversed? Stay close and offer your superior expertise?"Aramis teases.

D'Aratgnan nods and laughs softly. "Now you're just being boastful, isn't that a sin?"

Aramis puts his arm around the younger man's shoulders, leading him towards the opening in the tent. "Yes it is, but I fear that's probably the least of the things I'll need to share in confession," he says honestly, gently nudging the Gascon forward. "Go see to your horse and your weapons, remember, we leave at dusk."

D'Artagnan thanks him again and leaves.

Aramis decides it's probably a good time to pray.

* * *

Dusk comes all too soon and the tense group sets out on horseback northward. Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan have handpicked the other 9 Musketeers for the mission and the twelve men are due to meet the scouts that Athos had dispatched earlier in the day, sometime soon. It's still raining; it has been all day, on and off, and the road is muddy but fortunately not flooded. Their hats and long cloaks protect their uniforms and weapons from the worst of it, but even their horses are tiring from riding in the cold drizzle and over uneven, muddy trails.

D'Artagnan is apprehensive, all the men are, it's natural to feel this way before a mission or a battle. They haven't actually cobbled together much of a plan as of yet; they can't until they receive their intelligence from the scouts. There is a lot at stake with this mission and that weighs heavily on D'Artagnan; the French have suffered too many losses in the past months and the Spanish are slowly pushing their way southwards towards Paris. If they are to halt their progression, the Musketeers must destroy as many of their supplies as possible, wherever possible. D'Artagnan knows this is their first priority, the Spanish are not better trained or more motivated but they have superior numbers and are certainly better equipped.

They meet the scouts on the road a short while later. Two men disguised as merchants, since farmers or tradesman would not posses such fine horses, approach then from the north and begin a lively discussion with Aramis regarding the state of the roads and the ghastly weather, just in case they are being watched. No one can be trusted, not even the local farmers, the Spanish are terrorizing the entire region and the Musketeers are wary of everyone. Lowering their voices, the men pass on their information to the medic and they depart, loudly telling the Musketeers they will carry their regards to Paris and to their loved ones.

The group continues onwards and stops at an abandoned farm to rest their horses and make their plans. The half-moon provides them with minimum visibility since the sky is full of dark clouds and the men huddle around Aramis to listen to what he has to say. It's dark and cold and D'Artagnan dismounts carefully, mindful of his injured leg and the muddy ground, pushing back a twinge of pain when his feet hit the ground. According the scouts the camp has fewer troops than they'd expected, which is welcome news. The supply tents are located at various points on three sides of the camp and are minimally guarded. This is probably because the Spanish have built timber watchtowers at the four corners of the compound and probably don't expect invaders to get past the guards on watch. They'll have no other choice but to leave the horses further back to avoid detection and make their way on foot, using the cover of darkness and the thick foliage and the undergrowth that the scouts described for concealment.

"We need to take out the guards in the towers," Porthos says, stating the obvious, "and it has to be done quickly."

"Um, sir, I can help with that," a young Musketeer names Pierre says tentatively, moving forward. Pierre is a newer recruit but an excellent swordsman and very handy with a dagger. He's also of slight build and quick. D'Artagnan knows this and had chosen the young man to accompany them himself. "I can climb the towers, it's quite easy…I've done it before."

"If the towers are on all four corners around the perimeter, we'll need to deal with the southeast and southwest guard towers simultaneously," Aramis says. "Anyone else?"

"I'll do it," d'Artagnan volunteers, confident in his ability to scale the structure without being seen. Back in Paris, on more than one occasion, he'd been tasked with climbing stone walls and scaling buildings with little to no purchase, the wooden towers that the Spanish have constructed should be easy in comparison.

"Agreed. D'Artagan, you take the west corner, Pierre, you the east. Lads, you must be careful and quick, _especially_ with the signal, light the taper and douse it immediately; if you are seen by the other two watchtowers the alarm will be raised and the mission will be over before it begins… and the pair of you will mostly likely be shot," Aramis warns gravely. "Once d'Artagnan and Pierre have dealt with the guards and give us the signal, they'll make their way north and do likewise. Our scouts say there is a pantry tent between the two southern towers; Porthos, you take two men and target that tent. On the east side of the camp is the infirmary and medical supply tent, two of you will follow me there."

"And the powder?" The question comes from Hubert, a seasoned Musketeer who's fought many battles along side of his brothers and is a good man. D'Artagnan is glad to have him along, he's someone you can rely on in a tight spot.

"The powder is on the northwest side of the camp, directly below the guard tower. That is d'Artagnan's job," Aramis explains, the older man barely able to conceal his displeasure as he says it. "When everyone has completed their part of the mission they are to make their way back to the horses as fast as possible. If you are detected, engage, but use your pistols only if necessary, unless it all goes to hell of course, at which point you will defend yourselves by any means necessary."

"I need two men to stay behind with the horses and two men to wait on the road on the half-way mark between the horses and the camp, in case we need the horses brought up urgently," Aramis tells them. "Porthos, assign the men to their duties, d'Artagnan, a word," Aramis says and distances himself from the group. D'Artagnan navigates the muck-covered ground carefully and comes up beside Aramis.

"Last chance to switch places, lad," Aramis says, "no one will think any less of you for it."

D'Artagnan seethes inwardly but bites his tongue to stop the angry retort that springs to mind. He knows that Aramis doesn't mean to offend him; the older man's genuine concern is touching and not many soldiers will ever have friends like his, men willing to put their own lives on the line to keep each other safe, but he has earned his equal status among them and d'Artagnan will not shirk his duty and allow Aramis to take his place.

"Brother, your concern is noted and appreciated, but I'm fine and I can do this."

Aramis nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I know you can, but you're always going to be the baby of the regiment, you know that, right? Even when we're eighty we'll still be worrying about you, although you'll likely be taking care of the rest of us, wiping our old, shrivelled arses, being the youngster and all."

D'Artagnan laughs softly. "Your shrivelled backside is not an image I'd like to take into battle with me," he says, with mock disgust.

"Absolutely not, I want you to go into battle with the image of your feisty, beautiful wife in your head, so you don't make any mistakes, lad, are we clear?"

"Of course," d'Artagnan assures him. "After I shoot the powder I'll head towards your direction and down the eastern perimeter and away from the brunt of the blasts, easy as pie."

"I'll wait for the first blast on the northeastern corner and then I'll retreat," Aramis says firmly.

"I won't argue but _please_ keep back, brother, for your own safety, stay as far away as you can, if anything goes awry and I can't make the shot, I will come find you, agreed?"

"Agreed," Aramis says and he leans forward, pulling d'Artagnan to him in a quick embrace. "Give 'em hell, lad."

D'Artagnan grins. "You too, brother."

* * *

They leave the horses and the two men responsible for them - Henri and Jacques – behind and move forward on foot. The Musketeers have left their cloaks and hats behind as well as some of their weapons out of necessity, their extra weight a hindrance on their agility. Further down the road, two more Musketeers hide themselves in the spindly bushes on the side of the road and wish the others Godspeed.

D'Artagnan has neither sword nor main gauche, the latter replaced on his back by a harquebus, two pistols strapped to his sides and two daggers in his belt. There's also a small pouch tied to the Gascon's belt with his tinderbox and a taper to be used to signal the others that he's dealt with the watch. Porthos felt a sting in his eye when the lad handed over his sword to Henri, with instructions to give it to Athos should he not return. D'Artagnan is moving easily though and Porthos is grateful for small mercies; the lad's stride is even and steady and showing no signs of weakness from the slash on his thigh.

When the camp is in sight they drop into the undergrowth and D'Artagnan and Pierre go off first, the former with a jaunty grin, the latter with a worried grimace, and the two young men stay low in the vegetation until they are close enough to break cover and scale the towers. Porthos watches through his spy glass with his heart in his throat, waiting for the signal. When the flames appear one after another from the top of the two watchtowers Porthos gives the order to go. They spring forward, moving as quickly as they can through the wet bushes and thorn-covered hedges keeping as low as possible until they come close enough to breach the perimeter of the sleeping camp. Aramis, Maurice and Laurent disappear off to the right and Porthos, along with Bonet and Marcel head straight to the pantry tent, guarded only by one dozing soldier and Porthos truly regrets slitting the sleeping man's throat. As fast as they can, the three of them fill the empty sacks they've brought with non-perishables that are light enough to carry and the rest of the foodstuffs are thrown onto the ground and lamp oil is poured over the pile, effectively rendering everything left behind as inedible. On their way out the tent they encounter one very shocked and terrified young Spanish soldier and thankfully Marcel deals with him this time, Porthos doesn't think he can stomach killing yet another unarmed man. The three men sprint back towards the road, through the rough undergrowth once more and when they are out of sight, the big man hands his sack to Bonet.

"Head for the horses, I'll wait here for the others," Porthos says in a hissed whisper and the two younger men retreat. Porthos crouches behind a low hedge and takes out his spyglass, anxious to see what is happening in the camp. The alarm has not been raised, of that he is sure, because he hears no shouting and no pistol fire. For the moment, he has no choice but to sit back on his haunches and wait.

* * *

Aramis, like Porthos has encountered little resistance. The medical supplies are raided and what's left is rendered useless and Aramis has sent the others back to the safety of the underbrush, thankfully uninjured. With most of the camp asleep and the guard towers no longer manned, the mission had been much easier than the medic could have hoped. As he makes his way towards the northeast watch tower he hears the first explosion. The force of it knocks him from his feet and he turns and runs in the opposite direction, back towards the road and his waiting men as another, louder blast follows and then more successive explosions. He hears a cacophony of screaming men and orders shouted in Spanish but he doesn't look back until he has reached the road where he finds Maurice, Laurent, and a very anxious Porthos, waiting for him.

"All accounted for?" Aramis asks, his breath coming is short gasps.

"All but d'Artagnan," Porthos growls. "If that fool's blown himself up I'll…."

"You'll what, you idiot, you'll kill me?" the boy says from where he's just appeared, panting and sweating, his face covered in soot and blood but a wide grin gracing his face.

"For the love of God, let's move!"Aramis hisses and the group takes off at a run, their boots slipping on the uneven, muddy road, but they all manage to make it back to the horses in once piece.

All twelve men are accounted for; the only injuries are Bonet, sprained ankle where he slipped in the mud and d'Artagnan who has a nasty gash from flying timber on his forehead. There is no time to treat either of them and wordlessly, everyone mounts and they make haste southwards and back to their camp.

The Musketeers ride in silence, two abreast, their pace slower than they'd like due to the slippery terrain and at some point the rain begins again, this time in earnest. Aramis steals a glance at d'Artagnan who thankfully doesn't appear to be impaired by his head wound, and the medic promises God a few extra Hail Marys tonight when he prays. The men ride on and they are only about a league and a half away from the French camp, when the medic realises with dread, that they are being pursued and taking fire.

Automatically the Musketeers speed up their horses, no easy task on the muddy road, and they reach for their pistols, kept safe from the rain in their scabbards on their horses. Porthos and Aramis, who have taken up the rear, turn and fire. Their aim is true and Aramis hears horrified screams from the Spanish as their horses rear and the first riders go down to be trampled by their comrades behind them. Both Aramis and Porthos replace one of their pair of pistols and reach for the other, firing again on the remaining pursuers. Over the sound of pounding hooves Aramis doesn't know if his aim is true but Porthos lets out a satisfied laugh and the medic knows they've hit their marks.

Aramis hazards a glance over his shoulder; there are only a few Spanish soldiers still following but the Musketeers are still taking pistol fire. With both Porthos and Aramis having spent their weapons, d'Artagnan grabs his pistol and slows his horse, veering to the side of the road so that Porthos can ride past him. The lad takes aim and shoots and Aramis sees one man go down, leaving two riders still in pursuit. D'Artagnan replaces his pistol and reaches for the other, twisting his torso around to fire…

…and in that one dreadful moment everything seems to slow and distort, like nightmares so often do, and Aramis watches helpless as D'Artagnan takes a shot to the chest.

D'Artagnan's body jerks back and Aramis sees the pistol falls from the lad's nerveless fingers. His eyes go wide and his mouth falls open in a wordless cry of pain, but he still has his left hand tightly on the reigns of his mount. He slumps forward, guiding his horse mostly with his knees, keeping up the pace with the others despite the fact that every second he is in the saddle must be white hot agony.

No one but Aramis has noticed that the boy's been shot. D'Artagnan is wavering dangerously and must be holding on out of sheer stubbornness. Aramis bellows for Marcel to return fire. The younger man doesn't have a clear shot so he pulls back and reaches to out hand Aramis the pistol. The older man grabs it, turns and fires, the ball hitting one of the Spanish soldiers in the head. With his comrade dead, the last rider turns and retreats.

D'Artagnan lifts his head and turns to Aramis, blood pouring from his parted lips, his lids at half mast and an expression of confusion and fear on his impossibly young face. Aramis freezes for the space of a heartbeat; he can't recall ever seeing d'Artagnan frightened before and it's jarring… and that image will haunt him for a very long time to come. When he regains his wits he screams for Porthos. The big man turns at the sound of his name and he sees what Aramis does; a gravely wounded d'Artagnan wavering dangerously in the saddle, a dazed expression on his face.

Aramis carefully grabs the reins of d'Artagnan's horse and tugs gently, slowing the animal as he does the same with his own. Porthos has raised the alarm and the column of horses has slowed to a trot, Laurent having the good sense to guide the group off the road to the abandoned farm they'd stopped at earlier. When they reach the farmhouse, Aramis leaps from his horse, just in time to catch d'Artagnan before he slides into the mud.

Porthos quickly takes Aramis' precious burden from him and he carries d'Artagnan towards the house. Some of the men have broken open the door and they quickly search for candles or a lantern. Henri finds a cache of half burnt candles and some of the others descend on him to get them lit with their tinderboxes. The house has only one large room and there is no bed but there is a long, sturdy table in the middle, covered with inches of dust.

"Don't put him down yet," Aramis warns and he sends two men to find something in their saddlebags to clear away the grime. A terrified Marcel returns with his extra shirt and he quickly cleans the table as best as he can. Porthos lays the boy down gently, but d'Artagnan is jarred when his back hits the scarred wood and he cries out in pain.

Aramis calms him with a gentle hand on his face and barks out orders to the rest of the men. "I need my saddle bags, someone check if there is a well outside, Laurent see if there is any way to get a fire going." Porthos hasn't moved from beside their youngest, holding the boy's hand in his, the expression on the big man's face one of shocked horror. Aramis gives him a quick shake. "I need you to help me, brother," Aramis says sternly, "pull yourself together, _now_!"

Porthos nods slowly and grips the lad's hand tighter when Aramis opens his damp leather doublet in search of the wound. There is a jagged hole high on his chest, just above his right nipple and it's bleeding profusely. With shaking hands, Aramis presses a wad of clean bandages over the hole and looks to Porthos. "We need to lift him, to see if there's an exit wound. Gents, we need help over here," Aramis calls and everyone present surges forward to offer their assistance. D'Artagnan's eyes flutter open, but they are unfocused and glassy, his face pale and waxy. Aramis feels his heart stutter, _he looks half dead_ , he thinks morbidly, but he pushes the thought aside and addresses the soldiers gathered around him. "I just need two of you. The rest need to take care of the horses and try and make this place habitable for the next few hours. Who will stay? It won't be pretty," he warns.

Henri steps forward willingly. He's about d'Artagnan's age, maybe a year older and the two have become friends. Pierre also volunteers; if he can slit a man's throat he can watch a bullet wound being treated, Aramis thinks. "Alright, the rest of you leave us."

"Porthos, you and Pierre have to lift him, Henri, if there's an exit would I'll need you to pass me some bandages. Alright, lift him lads."

D'Artagnan lets out a mournful cry of pain that cuts right through Aramis, but he forcefully pushes his personal feelings aside and checks his back; no exit wound.

"Lay him back down," Aramis barks. "Porthos, we have a huge problem."

Porthos grunts. "Bigger than the one we already had?"

"Unfortunately, yes. The ball is in his chest and I have to remove it. There's also damage to his lung and the blood needs to be drained, like Dr. Lemay did when Treville was injured. I can do all that here, provided we find water and get a fire going to boil it, but when I'm done we won't be able to move him…we'll be stuck here, without enough firepower, dangerously close to enemy lines," Aramis says, his voice wavering with all the fear and uncertainty he is feeling.

Porthos nods, his expression bleak. "Maybe we can send some of the men for supplies, and in the meanwhile try and make do with what we have here."

"If he worsens we'll be here for days, maybe even a week, the General will have our heads – and Athos' - if even half of the men stay with us," Aramis tells him, his eyes on D'Artagnan's ashen face. "We literally have seconds to decide; do I remove the ball here or do we pack the wound tightly and ride for camp, I don't know!"

"He'll die if we put him back on a horse! We'll send eight men back to report to Athos and get ammunition and extra weapons, and keep Henri and Pierre here with us. In a day or so, maybe the lads can go and bring a wagon and we'll take him back," Porthos reasons.

Aramis shakes his head, torn. "The second we get that fire lit we will attract the attention of the Spanish patrols, every minute we stay here D'Artagnan's life is in danger either way. I say we try to make it back to camp."

On the table between them, D'Artagnan stirs and moans. The lad's eyes fly open and he begins to cough, a harsh, painful hacking that brings up a river of blood.

"Porthos, we need to turn him now!" Aramis says urgently and they move him as gently as they can onto his left side so that he doesn't aspirate the blood back into his lungs.

"Right, we have to stay. Pierre, go see if anyone has found water! And for the love of God I need a fire going now!"Aramis bellows to the men trying who are trying to clear the debris from the fireplace.

D'Artagnan's begins to shiver, a clear sign of blood loss, Aramis notes grimly and he shouts to someone to bring a blanket. The boy's eyes are still open, his mouth and chin stained with blood and Aramis finds it revolting to see him like that. He takes a clean bandage and quickly wipes the blood away, and then takes another to clean the gash on the lad's forehead.

"Aramis, I don't want …to stay here," D'Artagnan stutters, his teeth chattering and his torso trembling. "Too dangerous…for everyone," he says and Aramis knows he's heard most of his conversation with Porthos.

Aramis feels a sting behind his lids and he swallows the lump in his throat. "We have to, lad, it's the only way."

"N…n…no! It's my choice! I won't…die here, I want to go…back," he insists stubbornly, his glassy eyes imploring.

"You're not going to die!" Porthos tells him angrily, "Not here and not back at the camp, you hear me?"

"But I…might…brother….I beg of you, not _here_ …" he says, pleadingly.

It dawns on Aramis that the boy is not actually afraid to die, but afraid he will die far away from the rest of his fellow Musketeers….and far away from Athos. Their Captain has been the closest thing to a father the boy's had since coming to Paris, he's become d'Artagnan's mentor and his friend. There's no time to waste and Aramis makes the difficult decision to honor d'Artagnan's wishes. It's what he himself would expect from his brothers and he can't deny the boy what might be his final request.

"Musketeers, to the horses, we're heading back to camp _now_ ," Aramis calls out loudly, stuffing bandages into d'Artagnan's doublet to pack the wound. The other men are mostly shocked by this turn of events, but they begin to gather their gear quickly and silently. A somberness has fallen over the group as they watch, dismayed, as Porthos lifts a now unconscious d'Artagnan into his arms, cradling the boy close to his chest while Aramis piles blankets on top of his shivering form.

"He won't survive the ride," Porthos says to Aramis, clearly distraught.

"He will, he's the most mule-headed boy I have ever met," the medic says, though he doesn't fully believe his own words. They get to the horses and Marcel gently takes D'Artagnan while Porthos mounts his horse. Marcel and Aramis settle the boy in front of Porthos in the saddle and tuck two blankets around him. Porthos takes the reins with his left hand, his right going across the lad's chest to hold him still against him. D'Artganan hasn't made a sound since they'd moved him from the farmhouse and Aramis hurriedly checks for a pulse, just to be sure he hasn't slipped away from them, before they set off towards the French camp.

* * *

NOTES: I debated whether Porthos would have the same style of speech that he has in the show and decided against it for this story, I felt like it would throw something off, sorry if it sounds wrong to anyone, in a longer modern au that I will post later in the year he sounds like he does on screen:) Also, I've chosen to portray d'Artagnan as quite young, as most authors do actually, since Luke Pasqualino was himself very young when he played the character in the first two seasons, too young to even grow a proper beard, as he himself said in a behind the scenes video about beards:)


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and added this story to their follows and faves:) In case you were wondering, the completed story is around 35,000 words.

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

One morning, some three years earlier, a young and mostly innocent farm boy from Gascony walked into the garrison and demanded to see Athos. That boy was all fire and passion, his reason for seeking out the Musketeers connected to the tragic loss of his father just a few days prior. He'd fought Athos with the skill of a soldier, something that both shocked and pleased the older man; the boy had promise, _he will do great things_ , he'd predicted then, and Athos is usually not wrong about a man. The Captain hasn't had the same luck with women, mind you, but a man he could judge just by the look in his eye and once again, he'd judged correctly. D'Artagnan went on to become one of the finest, most loyal and more importantly, one of the most honourable men Athos had ever served with.

But it wasn't only his skill and his dedication to his regiment that made D'Artagnan stand out. It was his kindness, his fierceness and his unassuming boyish charm that had somehow impressed upon Athos, Aramis and Porthos, three men who had little time and patience for friendships outside of their own forged-in-hell bond of brotherhood, and yet the brat had unexpectedly wormed his way under the skin of the three battle-hardened Musketeers. It was partly his age, maybe he reminded Athos of his long-dead younger brother, or Porthos of the orphaned lads he'd known growing up and Aramis of the young Musketeers lost at Savoy. His affair with Constance had been difficult to observe, the ups and downs leaving d'Artagnan heartbroken and desolate one moment, euphoric the next, and Porthos had carried the lad home more times than Athos can remember after a night in his cups, sometimes from sorrow and sometimes from joy, but either way they were all greatly relieved when the besotted youngsters finally tied the knot. Athos had happily escorted her to the altar, like the sister he didn't have, and maybe the daughter he might never have, and they all had hope that from that moment forward the five of them, the closest thing any of them had left to a family, would put their unhappy pasts behind them and make only new and joyous memories, once and for all.

That is, of course, until Treville had entered the church mid-vows and turned their worlds upside down, one more time.

Any of the hope that Athos might have still been clinging to when the Musketeers had ridden off to war is destroyed the moment he sees Porthos ride into camp, a lifeless d'Artagnan hugged close to his chest, a frantic Aramis shouting orders, his usual calm and cocky demeanour replaced by naked fear.

Athos surges forward and helps Aramis ease the younger man out of the saddle and onto the stretcher that someone had procured. The boy is carried into the infirmary by two of the men from the raiding party and one of them, Henri, Athos notes, has red and puffy eyes as if he's spent the entire ride back weeping.

"He did it, sir, he blew the powder just like he said he would," the younger man tells Athos, tears threatening to spill, "and then those Spanish bastards got him on the road."

Athos nods, and pats the younger man on the back and guides him away from where Aramis and Porthos are stripping d'Artagnan of his shirt and doublet. "You've been a good friend to him, Henri, you and Marcel and Laurent, when many of the men had shunned him and were envious of his skill. Thank you for telling me, I knew he could do it, I'm proud of _all_ of you for a successful mission completed," Athos says, trying to console the young man as much as himself. "Tend to your horse, lad, and get some rest, d'Artagnan will be fine…he always is."

The Captain watches the younger man leave the infirmary and stays where he is, close enough to observe yet far enough away to not have to see Aramis dig into the youngster's flesh, watch the blood drain from the glass tube stuck in his lung or the needle pierce the tattered skin on his chest. He has the utmost respect and admiration for Aramis, a man who can keep his hands steady even when his patient is someone he cares so deeply for, and for Porthos too, who hasn't moved a muscle since Aramis had begun, standing guard over the lad as if his mere presence could somehow improve the outcome of Aramis' surgery. Two soldiers that the departed physician had been training as medics are at their side, providing Aramis with clean bandages, boiled water for his instruments, and clean rags to mop up the blood dripping off the wooden table.

The Captain knows he should stay, move closer, offer assistance, but he doesn't think he can. The foolish, brave boy managed the hard part of the mission and then got himself shot, he thinks ruefully; it's so typical of d'Artagnan's personality as well as his luck, Athos could almost laugh at the irony of it, if he wasn't afraid that his laughter would turn to tears. As things stood, he had a nice, firm grip on every emotion threatening to escape his carefully constructed and controlled facade. Including guilt of course, the emotion that he was trying hardest to temper; it had been eating at him since their meeting earlier in the day. He hadn't wanted d'Artagnan anywhere _near_ the gunpowder, but as Captain he has to make difficult choices for the good of the regiment, and not allow his personal feelings to interfere. The logical and rational choice, based solely on ability, was always d'Artagnan, whether it was setting and lighting fuses or shooting the barrels, Athos had decided from the moment he'd received the orders for the raid that it needed to be him. The lad is quick, agile and single-minded like no other man he knows. Yes, he can be reckless and impulsive as well, but _never_ if it would put others in danger and Athos knew he would succeed, even if out of sheer stubbornness and pride. And of course, he'd done his part admirably, and made his regiment…his _brothers_ proud. How he manages to attract trouble like a lanky, shaggy haired magnet, Athos does not know but he is still not accustomed to so much upheaval in his mostly detached and unemotional existence…and he is distressed, to say the very least.

Half-way through Aramis' surgery the Captain decides hecan't watch any longer, not if he's to keep himself in check, and not when d'Artagnan hasn't stirred or cried out even once since arriving back at camp. Athos braves one last look at the lad's lax, pale face and turns to leave, a mostly full bottle of claret waiting for him in his tent.

* * *

Porthos wonders what he dreads more; the possibility that d'Artagnan may not survive the night…or having to tell Constance that her husband has died.

For the moment, d'Artagnan is still with them. Aramis had found the lead ball relatively easily and once the wound was cleaned and stitched, Aramis assured him that his body would slowly reproduce the blood it had lost. But the ball had nicked the lad's lung and settled beside it, and the blood in his lung needed to be drained. Aramis had seen Lemay make the incision and insert the tube when Treville had been shot but he'd performed the procedure with the regiment's physician only once before, just a month earlier. That soldier had died, but there had been other complications, the man had suffered multiple battlefield wounds and infection had set in immediately. Aramis had blamed himself but Porthos knew it had nothing to do with his skill and everything to do with the filth and the muck of the bloody ground on which the battle had been fought.

Aramis doesn't have the metal tube that Lemay had in his instruments. His is made of glass, created for him by a glass-blower in a village they'd passed sometime in August, and kept safe in a case made from a hollowed-out tree branch that Porthos had spent hours making especially for the instrument. The glass tube makes the whole operation even trickier because if the patient moves, the glass can break off and do far worse damage than a shot ball. In order to perform the procedure safely on d'Artagnan, Aramis had no choice but to force a sedative down the unresponsive Musketeer's throat and pray for the best...and prayer is exactly what Aramis had requested of Porthos when the burly man had asked how he could help.

The incision was made, the tube inserted and a stream of blood flowed into the bowl that one of the trainee medics - Claude - was holding. They'd left it there for a quarter of an hour and when there was no more blood or fluid flowing through the delicate glass, Aramis had removed it and stitched the incision, and at once, both Pothos and Aramis had noticed that the boy's breathing was considerably less laboured than it had been before. When the cut on d'Artagnan's forehead had been carefully sewn as well, they'd sent the others away and Porthos and Aramis spent the next half hour stripping d'Artagnan down to his drawers and cleaning away all the filth and blood that covered the lad from head to toe. When they were done, and the last of the blood was wiped away from the surgery table, they'd covered d'Artagnan with a blanket and put a pillow of bundled up sheets under his head and they had no choice but to wait for him to wake on his own.

They took turns cleaning the blood from their hands and Henri had brought them clothes from their tents so they'd changed their bloodstained shirts as well. Athos, Porthos noticed, hadn't returned, nor had he sent anyone to inquire about the boy's condition. Porthos knows it isn't out of disinterest, it is out of fear. He knows Athos and he knows how he thinks; if d'Artagnan had taken a turn for the worse, one of them would have sent for him and since they hadn't, their Captain remained in his tent, probably having more wine than a commanding officer should, clinging to the knowledge that d'Artagnan still lived since no one had told him otherwise. For the moment, he let his friend be, but at some point he would insist that he put the drink aside and see to his duties as Captain of the regiment.

Aramis has gone to get some much-needed sleep and Porthos is alone with d'Artagnan, the infirmary blessedly empty of other occupants. What Porthos hates most is the waiting. Waiting to see if infection will set in, waiting to see if his lung fills with blood and fluid again, waiting to see if his body can overcome the blood loss and the trauma. For now, Porthos is disturbed that they can't move him off the table. Just a short while before it had been splashed with blood and gore and he desperately wanted to move the lad to one of the numerous cots that lined the infirmary. But Aramis had been adamant; d'Artagnan needed to stay absolutely still and if something went wrong, and he needed to insert the tube again, it would be best if he was already on the surgery table so that the medic would not lose a second before treating him.

Years before, on a mission for the King, Aramis had been gravely wounded and Porthos and Athos had held a vigil at his side for days. Some of their fellow Musketeers could not understand their dedication to their friend but those men had families, parents and siblings, wives and children at home, whereas Athos, Porthos and Aramis only truly had each other, the three of them were a family, brothers and comrades. Now they have d'Artagnan and Constance as well, and there are moments that Porthos almost regrets letting the young couple into his life; the more people he gets close to, the more Porthos has to lose.

Standing over the deathly still d'Artagnan, Porthos takes stock of the boy's injuries. The gash on his forehead had been stitched, a neat line of black thread on his ashen face. The slash on his thigh showed signs of redness around the scab but Aramis had cleaned and dressed it thoroughly and assured Porthos that is was not infected. The small incision made for the drain needed only two stitches and the linen covering it is dry and clean. The wound on his chest is covered by a large bandage, kept in place by a strip of linen wound around his back and tied off neatly on his side. There is no blood on the bandage for the moment and his breathing, although shallow, is steady, as is the beat of his heart. Porthos reaches out a shaking hand and gently pushes the lad's damp hair back from his face and lets out a chuckle.

"I've a mind to cut your hair while you sleep, maybe shave away some of the sloppy beard on your face, I bet Constance would like that, to see her husband clean-shaven and his hair groomed neatly, I've heard her threaten to do it herself," Porthos says to the lad, a smile on his face, his fingers running gently over d'Artagnan's jaw, the soft growth beneath his fingers reminding Porthos of how impossibly young d'Artagnan truly is.

"You've ruined everything you know," Porthos continues, the mirth gone from his voice. "The three of us, we were happy in our misery, gambling and whoring and drinking ourselves to death…well, that part mostly Athos…and then you showed up and…and nothing's the same! We can't do all of that anymore, because the minute we turn our backs you've gotten yourself into one scrape or another…someone has to look after you…you're a nuisance and pain in my arse," the hardened soldier says, his voice breaking, betraying his fear, "A tremendous pain in my arse is what you are….but if you leave us…if you leave us you idiot boy…we'll be lost," he says, one tear making its way down his scarred face. Another follows, then two more and then the dam breaks and Porthos, for the first time in years, weeps quietly.

* * *

When d'Artagnan's battered body slowly emerges out of its medicated coma to awareness, he's gasping for air, and he immediately comes to the conclusion that he's died and gone to straight to hell. There can be no other explanation for the indescribable agony; the devil himself must have come for him personally, he thinks, his list of sins considerably long and varied, a perfect candidate for the fiery pits. Aside from just the lives he's taken, there is so much more he's never atoned for; there's the disrespect for the clergy – most of them corrupt, mind you - and the fact that he's committed adultery…r _epeatedly_ , and without remorse… that one at least for love, so no regrets whatsoever. Blasphemy, gluttony …too much wine imbibed must fall in that category, and wrath…yes, _wrath_ , two years in Paris has certainly made him wrathful.

Oh, and then there's pride; that's a deadly sin for sure, and he's guilty of that one a thousandfold.

Take the raid on the Spanish camp, for example and his role in it; he'd never doubted, not for a second, his ability to complete his part of the mission. Scaling the watchtowers had been easy, slitting two men's throats, well, not so much, and yet another black mark on his soul; d'Artagnan never enjoyed taking a life, especially in an unfair fight, no sane man would. When the grisly deed was done, he'd made his way to the powder kegs, aimed for the one farthest, tossed aside the harquebus and then he ran like the devil was on his tail, which, incidentally, it seems, he had been.

With the ground shaking violently beneath his feet, he'd managed to make it back to the road with only a minor injury and after a cheeky ribbing aimed at the worried Porthos, the Musketeers made for their horses and headed for camp.

A short while later, though, it all went to hell, and well, apparently, so did d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan remembers the pursuit, taking fire from the Spaniards and then something slamming into his chest with what felt like the force of a cannonball. Raised in the saddle, he hadn't lost his grip on the reigns of his horse, but he'll never be quite sure how he managed to stay on his mount as long as he did. There are flashes of memory; being carried by Porthos, Aramis and Porthos debating the best course of action, blood in his throat and pooling in his mouth and pain, searing, agonising pain that didn't end until he'd lost consciousness at some point in the farmhouse, his eyes staying stubbornly shut until the following afternoon after the raid when he now wakes, a hoarse cry of anguish escaping his throat when he tries to take a deep breath and finds that he can't.

Hell…yes, it has to be, nothing on earth could possibly feel like this.

"D'Artagnan, calm yourself, lad," Aramis soothes, "take short, shallow breaths and you will feel better."

D'Artagnan blinks, trying to clear his vision. It sounds like…Aramis.

 _Thank you God,_ it's Aramis and not some skeletal hooded creature or horned demon, it's just Aramis, his friend and his brother, and the other man squeezes his hand gently. "That's it, calm breaths, just keep breathing, lad."

"Hurts like the devil," d'Artagnan whispers finally, still unable to focus on Aramis.

"I know, I'm sorry, but as soon as I'm sure that you have your wits about you, I'll give you something for the pain."

"My wits…"

Aramis lets out a sigh. "Yes, you have a head wound and I was forced to give you laudanum to keep you still in order to remove the shot and drain the fluid from your lung. When hours passed you didn't wake, I thought I'd addled your brain," he says with a shaky laugh.

D'Artagnan swallows the dryness in his throat and tries to reassure him. "Alright…I'm from Gascony and I married a beautiful girl named Josephine, how's that?" he says hoarsely.

Aramis physically flinches, and his eyes go wide.

"I'm joking brother, please…something for the pain…"

The medic visibly relaxes and moves closer, a cup in his hand and he lifts d'Artagnan's head gently and helps him drink.

The water is laced with something foul but he drinks it obediently, knowing it will help, but he feels utterly exhausted when he is done, like he'd just finished sparring with Porthos instead of simply drinking a cup of water.

"Aramis, can you…help me up," the Gascon asks, dismayed that his voice is nothing more than a faint whisper.

Aramis looks at him, expression amused. "Lad, you don't have the strength to lift a finger, let alone stand on your feet. You were shot in the chest, and your lung was injured, do you remember?"

"Yes…but this table…hurts, please…get me off it!" d'Artagnan says pleadingly. "Everything aches..."

"Alright lad, calm yourself, I'll get Porthos and we'll move you to a cot, how does that sound?"

D'Artagnan nods slowly, too tired to reply.

"If I leave you alone to get Porthos, do you promise not to try and get up on your own?"

"Yes," he breathes, starting to feel the effects of the foul brew Aramis had given him.

"Alright, one minute," Aramis tells him and disappears out through the tent flap.

D'Artagnan sighs and tries to take an inventory of his ails. His back and shoulders hurt, probably from sleeping on the table. There is a steady throb on his forehead, the gash on his thigh feels itchy and tight, but it's the wound in his chest that hurts like someone has stabbed him with a pike. Hopefully Aramis' potion will ease his suffering soon.

The medic returns with Porthos and the big man has a huge, joyful grin on his face. The presence of his friend and his obvious pleasure at finding d'Artagnan awake makes his heart stutter and he tries to return the smile.

"Look at you, back from the dead!" Porthos says, the relief obvious on his face, and he takes the lad's hand in his big one, and squeezes.

"I found him weeping over you like a grieving old widow last night," Aramis teases. The medic removes the blanket has a look at the wound on his thigh before he cuts away the linen strips holding the bandage on his chest.

"I was not weeping, you idiot…but I was worried, you were in a bad way," the big man admits honestly to d'Artagnan.

"Do you feel like you have blood in your mouth or your throat, lad?" Aramis asks, peeling the bandage away carefully.

"No," dartagnan murmurs, feeling very sleepy.

"That's excellent. I don't see any swelling or redness, but we need to be very careful," Aramis is saying, mostly to himself as he works. "Porthos, the lad wants to be moved to a cot, can you lift him?"

"No!" d'Artagnan protests, "I just need some help is all," he says, his words slurring together from the laudanum. "And I need to pee," he says, thoroughly embarrassed.

Porthos laughs loudly. "I'll help you off the table, boy, but I will not hold and aim for you, Aramis can do that."

"Hilarious, as always brother," Aramis says ruefully, carefully re-wrapping d'Artagnan's chest wound. "Lad, the only way you're getting off this table without ripping out your stitches is if you let Porthos lift and carry you, I'm sorry."

D'Artagnan wants to protest but he decides to choose his battles and he remains silent. For the moment, his bladder is more important than his pride. "Alright," he grouses and he braces himself for the onslaught of discomfort that he knows will come. Porthos slides his arms under his legs first, then under his shoulders. D'Artagnan hisses in pain, but manages to remain still when the big man lifts him gently and moves him the few feet to a cot. When he puts him down though, d'Artagnan can't hold back the cry of pain and he doesn't even try.

"You're fine, lad," Aramis soothes gently.

"Bucket?" he asks Aramis imploringly.

"This is going to be tricky, would it be so horrible if I helped you?" the medic asks.

"Sit me up and get me a bucket, or I swear to God I will aim for the both of you!" d'Artagnan slurs, indignant. He is in agony, he is sleepy and he is trying his best to retain his dignity and he is getting no cooperation from his friends with that.

Porthos grumbles something about bratty children but d'Artagnan pointedly ignores him. The big man once again puts an arm under his shoulders and with Aramis' help as well they manage to help d'Artagnan into a sitting position. "How's that, Your Majesty?" Porthos asks and puts the bucket between his legs.

 _Not nearly good enough,_ d'Artagnan wants to reply, because he still needs to get his drawers open, and his privates out and nothing is going his way at the moment. As a matter of fact, he has a sinking feeling that he's going to pass out, the pain and the spinning in his head tearing a soft gasp from his dry lips, and Aramis rushes forward.

"Can I get some privacy?" d'Artagnan complains, brushing off his concern and stubbornly trying to preserve what he sees as his self-respect. If he's going to fall forward into the bucket and pee all over himself he'd like to do it alone. Problem is, he acknowledges forlornly, that he simply can't.

"Porthos, give us a moment, brother," Aramis says firmly, and when the other man leaves them alone Aramis unlaces d'Artagnan's drawers, and stands beside him, holding the bucket close enough for him to pee without making a mess and he looks away. D'Artagnan feels a swell of gratitude. He struggles a bit but he finally manages to relieve himself and just like that his ordeal is over. He's helped onto his back by a silent Aramis, the vertigo dissipating and his lids drooping.

"There's no shame in asking for help, d'Artagnan. The rest of us have had to do this for each other more times than I can recall," the medic tells him quietly, covering his exhausted and trembling frame with a sheet and then a blanket.

D'Artagnan tries to reply, but it just comes out as a garbed noise. He's about to drift off when he remembers something that has been nagging at him since he'd regained consciousness, and he forces his lids open. "Athos?" he slurs, his voice no more than a whisper.

"The whole camp is on alert, we're expecting some kind of retaliation," Aramis says, obviously troubled. "Athos asked the General to send us another two dozen men from one of the other regiments, just as a precaution, but the bastard refused. He'll come later, I'm sure. Now, sleep, I'll be close by, nothing for you to worry about."

Of course he's worried, he thinks wearily, these are his friends and his family, who wouldn't worry? But there simply isn't anything he can do about it at present, especially since Aramis' laudanum concoction has taken finally taken hold, and within moments he is asleep.

* * *

Notes; I've written 'three years earlier' referring to d'Artagnan's arrival in Paris, but it's a pretty loose interpretation. I calculated 'season 1' as year one, the interlude in between seasons is about 8 months since the Queen gives birth in the first episode of 2 and then 'season 2' as year three, give or take. If you disagree or have paid more attention to me, please let me know and I will fix it J


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It takes Athos an entire day before he can visit d'Artagnan again. He'd left the lad the previous night looking more dead than alive but Aramis has once again proved himself a skilled medic and the boy, he's told, is resting quietly when Athos pulls himself away from regiment business and heads to the infirmary late in the evening.

In truth, it wasn't only the threat of a Spanish retaliation that had kept him from d'Artagnan. When he'd left the lad the previous evening he'd been so still and unresponsive that Athos had felt the urgent need to distance himself from him; too many unwanted emotions, too many memories of another boy lying so unnaturally still and covered in blood years before was simply more than he could face. The death of Athos' younger brother Thomas by his murderous wife's hand had been a pivotal moment in his life, it was the moment when Athos had abandoned his old life of wealth and privilege and embraced the utilitarian life of a soldier as a member of the King's Musketeers. Gone were the luxuries and the trappings of the aristocracy, and in their place endless bottles of inexpensive wine and the heavy weight of his weapons belt. He'd managed to keep everyone at arm's length until Aramis and Porthos had appeared in his life and proceeded to chip away at the sturdy wall he'd built around himself, leaving him vulnerable again, their friendship filling in the holes in the mortar that they'd worked so hard to clear away, and Athos had been content.

And then d'Artagnan had entered his life with the force of a hurricane, and within moments of making landfall, managed to wreak havoc on what was left of his crumbling defenses.

Walking through the muted noise of the Musketeers camp Athos wonders how he will make it through this campaign. In the past he'd followed orders, and now he must give them. Every choice he makes, every order he gives could mean life or death for one or more men at any given moment and maybe Athos as the Comte de la Fere, or even Athos in his first years as a Musketeer would have had no problem making these decisions. But now Athos the Captain sees life in a whole new light, and in some aspects he sees it as pre and post d'Artagnan; ridiculous as it sounds, d'Artagnan has brought such a marked change to their brotherhood that Athos, try as he might, could no longer pretend to be stoic and unmoved, not when the boy has managed to pry open parts of him that Athos had long ago locked away.

When he reaches the infirmary he finds d'Artagnan alone and sleeping quietly, his long, unruly hair falling over his face, one hand fisted tight in the blanket the only sign that he is not resting as peacefully as he appears. Exhausted, Athos sinks silently onto the cot opposite his, careful not to disturb the lad's healing sleep. D'Artagnan though seems to sense his presence and his eyes open slowly, taking a few seconds to focus but they are clear and free of the shine that comes with fever and Athos is tremendously relieved.

"How are you feeling, lad?" Athos asks softly.

"Like I've been kicked in the chest by an angry mule," d'Artagnan replies ruefully and Athos can't help but chuckle.

"Have you had anything for the pain?"

The lad makes a soft noise. "Yes, Aramis fed me his special concoction, it should help soon."

"Speaking of Aramis, he says you're doing well; no fever or infection, let's keep it that way, shall we?"

D'Artagnan grunts. "From your mouth to God's ears, Captain."

The lad, he notes, appears to indeed be faring much better than he'd expected. His face is pale and there are purple smudges under his eyes but the absence of fever and the fact that he is awake and lucid is enormously comforting, and it assuages the Captain's guilt, as least to some extent.

"You did well last night, I knew you would," Athos tells him meaningfully. "Aramis and Porthos were justified in their concern, though, it was an extremely difficult task you'd been charged with and to be honest, the idea of asking you or _any_ other man in the regiment to do it weighed heavily on me."

"Athos, if it'd been beyond my capabilities I would have said so. I may be a little….reckless? But I promise you, I'm not suicidal, brother," d'Artagnan says with a tired sigh.

Athos nods, a wry smile twisting his mouth. "Good to know, lad, because sometimes you give us cause to wonder."

"No lectures tonight, _please_ , I'm in too much pain," the boy says with a grimace.

"Not tonight, I promise," Athos assures him. "The General sends his best regards, by the way, for a speedy recovery as well as his personal commendation for bravery," Athos tells him, imitating the pompous aristocrat's manner.

"Does his personal commendation come with a monetary bonus and leave to visit my wife?" the D'Artagnan asks, his face scrunched up from the discomfort but Athos is pleased to see his demeanour is upbeat regardless.

Athos smiles fondly. "Unfortunately no, but I will try to get a few days leave for the married lads over the Twelvetide next month, it's the least the king can do for his loyal Musketeers.

D'Artagnan lets out a soft laugh. " _The married lads_? I think there's five of us in the whole regiment and the other four are probably in their 50's."

"Indeed. Well, when you're 50 I hope that you and Constance have a gaggle of grandchildren around your feet and you are nowhere near a uniform or a sword, let alone a war."

D'Artagnan yawns noisily. "So you think I should return to being a famer then? Exchange my horse and sword for a mule and a shovel? What would the Musketeers do without me?" he asks with mock affront.

Athos feels his heart clench; d'Artagnan's flippant statement holds so much more weight than the boy could ever imagine.

"Indeed, lad what would they do without you," he says honestly, but d'Artagnan doesn't hear his reply because the boy has already drifted off to sleep.

 _And what would the rest of us do without you?_ Athos thinks as he takes his leave, grateful that, for the moment at least, they won't need to find out.

* * *

Three days have passed since the raid on the Spanish camp and d'Artagnan decides, on his own counsel, that he is leaving the infirmary. He is still weak and in a substantial amount of pain but he complains that he can't sleep in the infirmary anymore because there is no privacy. None of his injuries are infected, he argues, so whether he sleeps in his own tent or in the infirmary should make no difference. Aramis balks, Porthos shouts and Athos shows his displeasure as he always does…quietly.

The temperature has dropped and it's been raining on and off for the past few days, the sky dark and the ground slick and muddy, and d'Artagnan feels like the weather perfectly reflects his current mood as well as his general state of mind. He's not used to being idle, nor is he accustomed to feeling so tired and weak, although Aramis has assured him that it will soon pass, the malaise he is feeling mostly a result of blood loss.

Left to his own devices, he wanders between the tent he shares with Porthos and the cot in Athos' larger more comfortable quarters, bored and aimless since he still cannot perform any of his regular duties. To pass the time, d'Artagnan writes letters to Constance and Treville, leaving out any mention of his injury to the former, and includes a carefully coded description of the raid for the latter. He also manages to spend some time grooming his horse, until he is caught in the act by Athos, who forbids him to go anywhere near the horses until his stitches come out. Normally, d'Artagnan would rebel, but Athos has threatened him with an extra week away from his regular duties as punishment, confined to the infirmary no less, if he doesn't convalesce as Aramis has directed. D'Artagnan is not one to sulk, but he finds himself feeling rather useless, and the Captain's rebuke stings, adding to his general feeling of melancholy.

After picking at what barely passes as stew on the fourth evening, d'Artagnan stumbles into Athos' tent and finds himself alone but he's simply too drowsy to go looking for his Captain or the others. He's also grateful that the Captain's cot is empty; it's too cold to lie on the ground in his bedroll tonight, and he knows that Athos won't begrudge him his comfort this one time. Under his bandage the wound on his chest feels warm and itchy and he scratches it distractedly through his shirt, hissing against the pain he causes himself. He removes his weapons carefully and places them on the ground, his leather doublet tossed aside with far less concern, and suddenly overcome with exhaustion, he falls onto Athos' cot with a groan, pulls the blanket over his torso and tries to sleep.

"Captain!...Captain!"

"Porthos, where are you? Aramis!"

"Captain!... D'Artagnan!"

D'Artagnan has no idea how long he's been asleep when frantic voices rouse him from his fitful doze. He opens his eyes blearily and sees that lamp has gone out and he is still alone. Outside, it sounds like chaos has erupted, men shouting for Athos, Porthos, Aramis and even himself. Dragging his stiff body off the cot and without bothering with his doublet, d'Artagnan straps on his sword and main gauche and grabs his pistols, and he stumbles out of the tent, fearing the worst.

In the middle of the camp a crowd of anxious soldiers has gathered and Athos and Aramis are hurrying towards them. He sees Porthos emerge from the mess tent, sword in hand and d'Artagnan takes careful steps forward, the pain from his injury hindering his movements.

"What's happened?" Athos asks urgently. D'Artagnan reaches the group just as a terrified Marcel begins to explain.

"There's men outside the camp, Captain, on the southern perimeter," he says panting, sweat dripping down his pale face despite the cold. "Spanish soldiers. They've captured our patrol and they're flying a white flag. They want to speak to someone in command, at once," the young soldier explains, his expression wild with fear. "They're carrying an armoury's worth of firearms, sir, at least 12 men."

"Musketeers, arm yourselves, guard the perimeter, it may be a trap! I need 20 men, swords and pistols, now!" Athos commands. "Aramis, Porthos, with me!"

"You," Athos says when he spots D'Artagnan, "back to the infirmary, I have no time for your antics!" his Captain tells him firmly and he grabs a torch from outside the mess tent. Aramis and Porthos do the same and follow.

"D'Artagnan, you're bleeding!" Lacroix says fearfully, and the young man surges forward. "You need to have Claude look at that."

D'Artagnan looks down at his shirt and sees it's spotted with blood, but he shrugs past Lacroix and follows behind his brothers towards the south side of the camp where the Spaniards are waiting.

Just beyond the perimeter are 12 mounted Spanish soldiers, one holding a white flag. In front of them, with pistols pointed at their heads, stands the French patrol; Pierre, Henri, Maurice and Hubert. They appear unharmed, aside from Henri, who has blood running down his face from a cut on his brow, their horses and weapons noticeably absent.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young man says mournfully to Athos, as if this could somehow be his fault, d'Artagnan thinks angrily. It's war, none of this is their fault.

"Who is in command here?" the Spanish officer seated in the middle of the group demands. The officer looks to be about the same age as Aramis, and he has the haughty demeanour of a man who enjoys giving orders and brooks no disobedience.

Athos passes off the torch and steps forward, his sword at his side but not in his hand, an imposing figure in his black leathers. "I am Captain of this regiment. If you have come under a white flag you have no need of those weapons pointed at my patrol," he says carefully.

The Spanish officer smiles coldly. "At the moment, white flag or no, I am not inclined to trust you or your men, Captain. Regardless, I have no intention of shooting any of these soldiers unless you force my hand, Señor. I have come here for only one man. If you hand him over to me, these young gentlemen will be returned to you safely and I will not signal to the rest of my company to come forward and engage," he explains to Athos carefully in almost perfect French.

"One man, you say?" Athos questions. "Who is this one man you seek, Monsieur, and what business do you have with him?"

Aramis stiffens visibly and moves closer to d'Artagnan. He has his pistols drawn as do Porthos and the rest of the men who have come to face the Spaniards. The two regiments, d'Artagnan acknowledges, are locked into a deadly standoff; the French patrol will surely be killed in the crossfire should it come to it, and if the Spanish truly do have an entire company of men waiting in the shadows, it will be a bloodbath, mostly for the Musketeers who are under-equipped and probably outnumbered. Sending for reinforcements would be futile; a battle between the regiments would be over long before a rider even reached the General's headquarters.

"Whatever happens, say nothing, do you hear me?" Aramis hisses near his ear, his eyes dropping to the blood on d'Artagnan's shirt. " _Nothing_!"

"The man I seek, Señor, is the bastard that blew up our gunpowder and killed a dozen men in the explosion that followed. You will hand him over to me to face trial and punishment at which point we will leave and not a shot will have been fired. One man, Captain, and the lives of these four as well as many more will be spared," the Spanish officer says, his expression deadly serious.

D'Artagnan doesn't move, doesn't flinch, he's been a soldier long enough to know how to keep himself in complete control. How did Aramis know? _Instinct_ , he realises, it's what's kept them alive these past months after all, the Gascon concedes.

"Monsieur, the man you seek would be me," Athos replies at once, moving forward and distancing himself from the rest of the men. "As Captain, anything that is done by my men is on _my_ orders, so I am responsible for the deaths of your soldiers…as you are for the deaths of dozens of French soldiers in raids on our camps in the past few months. What gives you the right to pass judgement when your men have done the same and worse? This is war, Monsieur; ugly things happen every day that these men are not personally responsible for."

The Spanish officer laughs, a cold, ugly sound that makes D'Artagnan shiver, or maybe it's the frigid air and the fact that he is wearing only his blood-stained shirt in the freezing November night. His pistols have begun to feel heavy, and his hands feel numb from the effort of keeping them aimed at the Spaniards.

"I like you, Señor, you amuse me…but you do make an interesting point. However, in this case, one of the men who was blown to pieces was my younger brother," he says flatly. "I am the Marques de Alongado, Señor, and Captain of this regiment…and you are?" he asks of Athos.

"I am Captain of the King's Musketeers, Monsieur, but if you think a fancy title makes any difference in the life or death of a soldier, you are addressing the Comte de la Fère, and all of these men are _my_ brothers, Captain, not just one of them. You would seek some kind of warped justice for the death of your sibling during wartime and put all the rest of these men in danger?" Athos says, indicating the Spanish soldiers.

A soft murmur is heard among the Musketeers, most of who had not previously known that Athos was titled. D'Artagnan watches, almost amused as the men surrounding Athos suddenly appear to be holding their heads slightly higher; their Captain is an equal to the odious Spaniard making demands, and for some odd reason that seems to make them feel more confident, prouder. D'Artagnan is honoured to call this man brother regardless of his title, he thinks fiercely, but despite his valiant efforts, Athos is only buying time.

Porthos, body wound tight like a bow, thunderous expression of his face, whispers something in Athos' ear and Athos nods.

"Monsieur, we seem to be at an impasse," Athos says when the Marques does not reply to the Captain. "I am offering myself, and no one else, these are my terms."

"No! If this man does not step forward immediately I will shoot your patrol, beginning with this boy," he says, indicating Henri. The young Musketeer looks terrified, but to his credit, he does not say a word, he simply raises his head a little higher.

"If you shoot that boy, you will face a hundred Musketeers out for vengeance," Athos says calmly, his right hand settling over the hilt of his sword. After three years of serving together, d'Arganan knows Athos is not nearly as composed as he appears to be.

"And you will face two hundred Spanish soldiers ready to die for honour," the Marques replies haughtily.

The Spanish are speaking amongst themselves, debating, while one man dismounts and places a pistol against Henri's back. The young man begins to shake, his thin shoulders trembling and his face crumples.

D'Artagnan tries desperately to catch his gaze and when he does, he gives his friend a reassuring nod. His decision is made. He's kept quiet out of courtesy for Athos and he's allowed his mentor the respect that he deserves as Captain of the regiment but this ends now. No one, not Athos or Henri or anyone else for that matter, will be harmed or taken prisoner in his place.

One by one d'Artagnan drops his pistols and the sound of his weapons hitting the ground spins all eyes in his direction. A look of pure horror passes Athos's face and his Captain surges forward, only to be caught in a tight grip by Porthos, a resounding _NO_ echoing from his mentor in the silence like the sound of gunfire, but d'Artagnan continues to remove his weapons, sword next, main gauche following, the dagger from his boot, all clanking to ground into a pile in front of him.

"I am the man you seek, Monsieur," d'Artagnan says clearly, meeting the Marques' dark gaze, and he hopes to God that no one takes his shivering for fear.

From behind him, d'Artagnan hears a roar of voices, his friends, no _brothers,_ unable to keep their shock and dismay to themselves and Aramis swiftly commands then to be silent.

Athos, still held in Porthos' iron grip, calls out to the Marques. "Monsieur, this man is a liar! He is just trying to save his friends! I have already told you that I will go with you, let us end this now!" he roars.

The Marques however, ignores Athos, his attention fixed solely on d'Artagnan, who is trying his best to preserve his pride by not fainting from pain and from weakness. Henri is weeping quietly and Aramis has gone completely rigid and silent beside him, not even looking in d'Artagnan's direction, his gaze intently focused on Athos, as if he is expecting the other man to give orders. Porthos tightens his grip on his Captain, who is struggling to get free and cursing loudly.

"Very well, soldier, if you will come forward and surrender yourself, I will release each of these men, one by one," the Spaniard says to d'Artagnan. He speaks rapidly in Spanish to his men and another soldier dismounts, pushing Maurice toward the Musketeers. D'Artagnan takes a few halting steps forward, gritting his teeth against the pain assaulting the entire right side of his torso, silently praying that he will close the distance without falling on his face.

He will die as he lived, with his dignity intact.

"Wait!" Aramis cries out loudly. He puts his weapons on the ground and raises his arms high. "A word, Señor," he says, addressing the Marques in Spanish, "and then you can have your prisoner."

"Aramis!" d'Aratagnan hisses, swaying, "let it be!"

Aramis ignores him completely and continues towards the Marques, his hands held high. The Musketeers look on anxiously as the medic approaches the Spaniard. The Spanish soldiers visibly tense and begin to murmur amongst themselves but the Marques silences them with a sharp reprimand. Aramis reaches the man's horse and begins speaking to him in rapid Spanish.

D'Artagnan is sweating from the effort it takes to stay on his feet. He is hot and cold at the same time and he fears that if this doesn't end soon he will keel over into the mud and shame his father's name. He has no idea what Aramis is planning but if involves anyone aside from himself being taken by the Spanish or in any way harmed, d'Artagnan will not abide by it.

With his mysterious negotiations concluded, Aramis nods to the Marques and he hurries back to d'Artagnan, the medic's hands closing around his elbows gently to steady him.

"He has agreed to fight you instead. A duel, last man standing," he says quickly. "This way you still have a chance. If they take you, brother, you're a dead man, I'd rather see you go down fighting than tortured in some filthy Spanish prison," he tells d'Artagnan urgently, shaking him slightly, "do you understand what I'm telling you, lad? Can you do this? Can you at least try?"

D'Artagnan nods slowly, allowing Aramis to take some of his weight, his brain sluggishly absorbing what Aramis is trying to explain him. "Of course I can," he tells the medic, trying to sound confident, "I can do anything," he manages to say, before he pitches forward into Aramis, and everything goes black.


	5. Chapter 5

Heartfelt thanks for the reviews, faves and follows. Fanfic writers receive no monetary gain for their efforts, their only reward is knowing that they've grabbed a reader's interest or at least piqued someone's curiosity, so every comment, every critique, every follow is like a precious gift; again, my most sincere thanks :)

Chapter 5

"D'Artagnan, open your eyes, lad," Aramis says softly, one calloused hand gently stroking his face.

D'Artagnan's lids feel sticky and leaden, but he complies slowly, confused. "Aramis?" he asks stupidly, although he knows full well who is beside him.

"It's me, lad," he says quietly. "I'm going to help you sit up, alright?"

"Alright," he replies automatically, and he leans into Aramis as the other man gently maneuvers him until he's sitting.

"Do you remember what happened, d'Artagnan? You did something very, very stupid, but very brave," Aramis tells him, a single tear escaping damp eyes and rolling down the older man's his face. "If I wasn't so angry with you I'd be very proud."

They are in the infirmary, he realises sluggishly and d'Artagnan sees Porthos and Athos standing behind Aramis, the big man with a stony expression on his face, their Captain however has his back turned to them, one shoulder leaning on the sturdy wooden beam in the middle of the infirmary.

"You offered yourself up as a sacrifice, you idiot boy!" Porthos says finally, his words an angry hiss in the silent tent. "What were you thinking?" the big man demands. "We have half an hour to get you ready to meet your maker, how could you do this to us?"

It takes d'Artagan a few more seconds to piece together the events that Porthos is referring to and he feels his heart stutter and a ball of fear settle in his belly.

"They were going to shoot Henri," d'Artagnan says finally, everything coming back in a rush. "How could I stand there and let that happen? What kind of man do you think I am?" he questions, hurt.

"You should have kept quiet and let them take Athos, he's not injured and the General would have moved heaven and earth to get him back in a prisoner exchange…we had a plan!" Porthos said furiously.

"Let them take Athos? And leave the Regiment without a Captain during a war we are losing?" D'Artagnan asks, incredulous. "And besides, the Spaniard didn't seem all that willing to take Athos, brother, he was all set to start shooting our patrol!"

"But it wasn't your call to make, you foolish child! It's the Captain's job to negotiate, you didn't even give him a chance to counter, you just opened you big mouth!" Porthos growls.

D'Artagnan shakes his head slowly. "All that trouble to spare one man, Porthos? No, I did what was best for all of us."

"And you!" Porthos says, pointing an accusing finger at Aramis, "I don't even know what to say to you!"

Aramis crosses his arms over his chest, the lines around his mouth taut. "From the moment he gave himself up and neither of you had anything better to contribute, I did what was best for the boy. I seem to recall that you've spent some time inside a Spanish prison, Porthos, is that the fate you preferred for him?"

"I preferred that the both of you had stayed out of it, full stop! And you know damn well that I wasn't letting that bastard take him anywhere!"

Aramis throws his arms up, frustrated. "Well, while you and Athos were busy bickering with each other, someone needed to do something," the medic spits out angrily.

The arguing is giving him a headache and D'Artagnan winces against the steady throb in and around his wound, the ache shooting up to his shoulder and down to his hip; it's been hours since Aramis has given him something for the pain and it's impossible to take anything now if he is to stand on his feet, let alone wield a sword.

"Stop discussing me like I'm not here and I can't think for myself!" d'Artagnan says wearily, his left hand massaging the base of his skull as if he can rub away the headache forming. "Porthos… Aramis is right, I'd rather die here, with the three of you by my side, than in some rat-infested jail cell, suffering and alone," D'Artagnan says truthfully and he lets his eyes slide shut, just for a moment, he tells himself tiredly.

"D'Artagnan, look at me," Aramis demands, shaking him slightly, "you are _not_ going to die! But if you're doing this we're running out of time. I need to bandage your chest and you must eat something, some broth at least…and dress you in something warmer than just your shirtsleeves," Aramis is saying, gathering supplies. "You can beat him you know, we've taught you well brother, I've seen you fight under worse circumstances," the medic continues, his words now coming fast and urgent. "Let me tend to your wound first."

Aramis works quickly, cleaning the wound with spirits and tying the thick wad of fresh bandages to his chest with clean strips of linen. He ties the strips tighter than he'd been doing previously and D'Artagnan grimaces at the pain.

"I know it hurts but it will keep you from tearing any more stitches," Aramis says apologetically. "Porthos, bring me that broth, please."

Porthos grudgingly passes Aramis the bowl and he hands it over to d'Artagnan, who - it becomes painfully obvious - is incapable of keeping it steady. Aramis swiftly takes it back and fills the spoon.

"Open your mouth, lad," he says sternly. D'Artagnan opens his mouth, not to eat but to protest, and Aramis uses it as an opportunity to stuff the spoon in. D'Artagnan chokes on the warm liquid, but he swallows grudgingly and he allows Aramis to feed him a few more spoonfuls before waving it away.

"Enough, I'll be sick."

"You are under no obligation to do this, you know," Athos says clearly, finally turning around to face d'Artagnan. "I've let this pretence continue simply to buy enough time to make you see reason. It is _my_ responsibility, not yours, to decide how we deal with this threat," he says with barely contained fury, "and every man in this camp knows his duty and is willing to take up arms tonight, for you, and for their regiment, you do not have to do this alone!"

D'Artagnan nods slowly. "Please thank each and every one of them on my behalf, Captain, but I have to do this. I am one man, one soldier versus the lives of possibly half the men in our regiment, is my life worth more than all of theirs, Athos?"

"Every single life in this regiment is as important as another!" Athos roars. "We are Musketeers, we do not let our brothers fight alone, what happened to 'all for one', d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan scoffs, and shakes his head. "I think you are deliberately forgetting the second part of our motto, Captain, ' _and one for all_ '. This is me, keeping to our code of honour. Aramis, help me up, please."

Aramis looks from d'Artagnan to the fuming Athos, and back to d'Artagnan. "Lad, Athos is right, you know, this is war, not the salons of Paris, you're under no obligation to fight this duel and if you decide not to we won't let them take you…either way I will accept your choice," Aramis tells him meaningfully, helping d'Artagnan to his feet.

"Oh for the love of God, Aramis, he can barely stand!" Porthos cries angrily. "If you do this, brother, I won't watch," Porthos warns him. "I won't be there to offer you my support, I won't, I can't…."

D'Artagnan nods slowly. "I understand," he says, and he takes a wobbly step forward, intending to embrace the man who's had his back since day one. But Porthos turns away, his expression hurt, and d'Artagnan sighs, resigned to doing this with or without his brothers by his side. "Aramis, my sword?"

Aramis hands him his sword and his main gauche and d'Artagnan tests their weight in his hands. His right arm can't take the full weight of the sword, not without straining the wound in his chest he realises with dread, and so he switches hands, eternally grateful to Athos who has taught him to wield the weapon with either hand. His skill will be diminished but at least he'll have the chance to defend himself. Aramis takes the weapons back from him and places them on the cot, reaching for his mended leather doublet and he helps d'Artagnan slide into it, tying the laces carefully for him. His pauldron follows and he is ready.

"I can't watch this, it's like you're dressing his corpse for his funeral," Porthos snarls and moves to leave. "One thing, d'Artagnan, I forgot to ask; what should I tell Constance? That you committed suicide by duel?" he asks cruelly and he storms out.

"He doesn't mean it," Athos says with resignation. "He's worried sick, like every other man in this camp. I could easily have you locked in shackles and tied to a tree, you know, I am Captain of this regiment and my word is law…if you were anyone else I'd have done it already. So I will ask you one more time, lad, will you let us all fight by your side?" the Captain asks imploringly.

There is so much anguish in his mentor's gaze, it leaves him breathless. For one fleeting moment, d'Artagnan wavers. He is only human, after all, not many men go willingly to certain death, there is no shame in being afraid…he knows this. But the moment is gone, and d'Artagnan can see images of carnage and blood, bodies and sightless eyes in his overtaxed brain and he shakes his head. He takes his weapons from the cot and with a solemn Aramis at his side, he leaves the tent to meet his opponent.

* * *

The Spanish soldiers have remained exactly where they'd been earlier, just outside the perimeter of the camp, only now they have dismounted from their horses and released the French patrol. A ring of torches has been lit and placed in a wide circle around the Spaniards who have their pistols primed and aimed at Athos' Musketeers, and every single soldier on both sides is wound tight with apprehension because they know that a firefight will end in slaughter.

That inevitable firefight will have to wait for the battlefield though, because one very stubborn Gascon farm boy won't have it any other way.

D'Artagnan makes his way towards the Spanish, walking proudly through the middle of the French camp, shivering slightly from the cold, the steady throb of pain slowing his gait, but with his head held high and Aramis close at his side. As he passes, his fellow Musketeers look at him as if they are seeing some great warrior, their reverence evident in their gazes. Their awe embarrasses him, there is no glory in death, he thinks, and choosing honour is not something he should be acclaimed for. _Honour should be emulated and not venerated;_ these words are Treville's, repeated to d'Artagnan those few times he'd shown smugness or arrogance, and they echo in his head as if the man himself is walking at his side.

A few of the men, Henri, Laurent and Marcel - d'Artagnan's close friends - are red-eyed and plainly distressed. It's not just about him though, d'Artagnan acknowledges, these men know that the sacrifice of one is what will save the entire camp from an unnecessary bloodbath. Lacroix, the boy who Porthos claims is frightened of him, reaches out and squeezes D'Artagnan's good shoulder as he passes, and the gesture gives the Gascon strength, even as his weakened body threatens to betray him.

By the last few yards, most of the camp is following him, tense and silent, their weapons at the ready. One word from Athos and they will throw themselves into the fray, one look from d'Artagnan to his Captain and he can free himself of this burden he has taken upon himself. D'Artagnan pointedly avoids Athos' gaze and he looks away from his mentor, who'd accompanied him stoically, and is standing a few feet away from the Marques, waiting. There is no sign of Porthos, and that fact should cut deep, but it doesn't, the last thing d'Artagnan wants is to cause his brother any further pain.

When d'Artagnan is finally standing across from the Spanish officer, Aramis places a cold hand on his face, letting it linger for a moment and they share a look; no words are necessary, d'Artagnan knows every single thing that Aramis wants to say just from that look and then the medic turns away to take his place beside Athos.

"What is your name, boy?" The Marques asks d'Artagnan in French.

"I am d'Artagnan, son of Alexandre, of Lupiac in Gascony," he says proudly.

The Marques nods and smirks as if he somehow finds his lineage humorous. "And may I ask how old you are, d'Artagnan of Gascony? You look as if you should still be suckling at your mother's breast, not playing at being a soldier," the Spaniard says, taunting him.

"My mother is dead, but I will tell my wife what you've said, she'll find it amusing," d'Artagnan replies calmly, not rising to the bait.

"Your wife you say? Well, I'll be sure to tell her myself then, when we reach Paris and I'm fucking her in your bed," the man snarls.

D'Artagnan hears a roar of fury from the Musketeers when the Spaniard dares defile Madame d'Artagnan with his words, a woman who they know faced death by beheading with her eyes wide open and her head held high. Once, words like these would have spurred d'Artagnan into a murderous rage, but the war has mellowed that part of him and aside from a muscle working in his jaw, he gives away nothing to his enemy. He takes a moment, just a few fleeting seconds, to think of Constance, but he locks her image away in his heart and keeps his head held high.

"You can try, but my wife is a Musketeer...as much as any of these men you see before you…it's more likely she'll cut off your balls and feed them to you, Monsieur, before you'd get anywhere near our bed."

There's a chortle of laughter from the Musketeers and some of the men loudly second what d'Artagnan has said, and praise for Constance abounds. The Marques seems to find this comical as well and he laughs, a loud guffaw that rumbles in his chest, but there is no real mirth in his gaze. When he is done amusing himself he raises his weapons and he smirks. "We shall see, little boy, we shall see," the Spaniard says, and he waits for the signal.

With his sword in his left hand and his main gauche in his right, d'Artagnan too waits for someone to give the signal. He spends those few precious seconds asking God to forgive his long list of sins, a last confession between himself and his maker, just in case, and when Aramis drops the glove he surges forward, steel clashing against steel and he begins the fight for his life.

From the start, d'Artagnan has two major disadvantages; he is seriously wounded and he is wielding his sword with his left hand. But he is stubborn and proud and he has a beautiful wife to return home to so he fights against the weakness of his body and his diminished skill and it shocks even himself that he is keeping up with the Marques. He wonders if the older man is toying with him for sport, or maybe he's just not that skilled with a sword, but either way, he manages to hold his own. It continues like this, lunge, parry, fade, over and over again until he's dizzy with it and the Spaniard's tactic becomes clear; he knows he's fighting a wounded man and he's purposely trying to wear him down, hoping d'Artagnan won't only lose the duel but possibly his dignity as well.

Sweat runs down his face and his back, the wound on his chest a fireball, his mind is fuzzy and grey. D'Artagnan grits his teeth and does everything in his power to meet every strike, when suddenly, he loses his balance and stumbles.

This is it; this is the moment that the Marques has been waiting for, he acknowledges sluggishly, and d'Artagnan doesn't have the speed or the physical strength to deflect when the Marques runs him through with his sword.

There is a roar, a collective outcry from his brothers when the Spaniard's sword goes through his left side, slicing through leather, flesh and muscle like a knife through butter. D'Artagnan is frozen like that, impaled on the other man's sword, beads of sweat rolling down his pale face, his knees threatening to buckle. When the Marques finally pulls his weapon out with violent tug, d'Artagnan's eyes go wide and his mouth opens, but he doesn't cry out, he doesn't make a sound, all the breath punched out of his lungs from the shock and he teeters on his feet, stumbling backwards, miraculously managing to retain his footing on the muddy ground, blood gushing freely from both entrance and exit wounds.

"Yield, boy, and I will make it quick," the Spaniard says smugly. From behind him, d'Artagnan can hear his fellow Musketeers screaming at him to not fall, begging him to keep fighting. He wants to of course, he's not ready to leave this world, he and Constance have so many dreams, he thinks, the world spinning madly around him. The Spaniard throws his main gauche aside, and approaches d'Artagnan with a twisted smile on his face, and he raises his sword, resting the tip casually on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Yield," he says again, hissing in d'Artagnan's face.

Through the haze of weakness and agony, d'Artagnan realises with shocking clarity that the Marques no longer considers him a threat. If he is to win this battle, it will be solely based on the other man's miscalculation and the size of his inflated ego. This is it, his final Hail Mary, his last chance to survive or at the very least, his last chance to take the bastard to hell with him. His left arm is trembling violently but his sword somehow remains firmly in his grip. D'Artagnan lets out a strangled battle cry and with the last of his strength he thrusts upwards with just enough force to push his sword through the soft black leather covering the other man's belly.

The Marques cries out and his dark eyes widen in surprise, his expression pure shock as his sword slips from his hand, useless.

Last man standing, those are the rules. D'Artagnan yanks out his sword and watches through fluttering lids as the Spaniard stumbles backward and his body hits the muddy ground with a thud. A cheer goes up, booming cacophony of sound, his entire regiment now one voice roaring in his ears. D'Artagnan doesn't check if the other man is dead, it doesn't matter either way and he has no intention of finishing off an unarmed man. He drops his sword and tosses aside his main gauche, his right hand going to the gaping wound in his side, his shaking palm ineffective against the river of blood running down his hip. Swaying dangerously d'Artagnan tilts his face upwards, dazed, and he sees the clouds that have hovered over their camp for days have moved on, and there are stars, he notes with tremulous wonder, the night sky is now full of stars, like a dark blanket embellished with sparkling diamonds and he smiles to himself, remembering something he and Constance had promised to each other one night last spring under a sky full of stars.

When the world shifts and everything starts to fade, he sees Porthos, pushing his way through the crowd, moving quickly towards him, anguish imprinted on the big man's face and he catches D'Atagnan's boneless body in his strong arms.

"You're here," d'Artagnan breathes with a relieved sigh, and he lets go.


	6. Chapter 6

This chapter is 7,500 words because I wanted to share everyone's POV, hope you enjoy. Thanks to everyone who has commented and added this story to their faves and follows, it means so much to me!

* * *

Chapter 6

* * *

When it's over, and the voices have died down and that momentary thrill of victory has passed, there isn't a man present who feels like either side has won. Few of the soldiers, French or Spanish, have been at war long enough to have become desensitised to violence and sight of their injured comrades, stained and discarded weapons and bloodied ground is jarring to all.

Porthos catches d'Artagnan before he falls and lifts the wounded boy gently, cradling him close against his broad chest, his face a mask of sorrow. Aramis rushes forward and quickly checks for a pulse, pulling up d'Artagnan's bloodied doublet for a cursory look at the wound.

"The blade's gone cleanly through, I don't think there's organ damage but I need to stop the blood immediately," the medic says over his shoulder to Athos and Aramis hurriedly follows Porthos to the infirmary, numerous soldiers silently trailing behind them.

The Musketeers standing with Athos have not moved a muscle; they are still positioned behind their Captain waiting tensely for orders as the Spanish soldiers grudgingly put away their weapons. The Marques, he is informed, is dead, something Athos is very grateful for. Athos knows that d'Artagnan is too honourable to deliver a killing strike to an unarmed man, and he is proud of the boy for his principles, but had the Marques lived, Athos is certain that at some point he would have come back for their youngest. While the Spaniards collect the body of their Captain, one of their Lieutenants comes forward, white flag still in his hand and he assures Athos that he and his men will depart swiftly and peacefully.

"You are an admirable man, Señor, the Marques would not have stepped forward and offered to sacrifice himself as you did. I hope to never meet you on the battlefield in this God forsaken war," he says sincerely in schoolroom French. "Your man was brave and fought with honour…may God rest his soul," the Spaniard adds kindly.

Athos frowns. "You are mistaken, Monsieur, d'Artagnan is not dead and his wound does not appear to be fatal."

The older man looks at Athos with an expression of shame. "Go quickly then, if he still lives tell your doctor that he has been poisoned, the Marques was a cunning and dishonourable man, I am truly sorry, the boy fought valiantly and he doesn't deserve this."

"Poison? On his sword? What kind of poison?" Athos asks frantically.

"It's from the Oleander plant, I don't know anything else for sure, our camp is rife with rumours about the Marques and his disreputable practices. My sincerest apologies, I wish I knew more…" the Lieutenant is saying but Athos has taken off at a run, leaving the other man behind.

"Hubert!" the Captain calls urgently out as he passes the other Musketeer. "Secure the perimeter at once! The Spanish are leaving peacefully, let them depart without incident, do I make myself clear?" Athos says and doesn't bother to even wait for the other man to reply. He heads directly for the infirmary where he finds Aramis and Porthos stripped to their shirtsleeves, struggling to hold d'Artagnan upright as the boy vomits up his mostly empty stomach into a bucket.

"Aramis! He's been poisoned, the Spanish lieutenant told me! How long has he been vomiting?" Athos asks frantically.

Aramis looks terrified. "Athos this is bad, I haven't even stitched the wound, we can't keep him still! Every time I lay him down he needs to vomit, there's not even anything in his stomach!"

"Get him on the table, now!" Athos demands.

Aramis and Porthos maneuver the lad to the table and gently lift him, laying him on his back. D'Artagnan is barely conscious and his shirt and drawers are drenched in blood, as are both Aramis and Porthos.

"This is the third time, Athos, don't you think I've tried?" Aramis asks, his tone desperate.

"The poison is Oleander. Porthos, send someone to ask the others if anyone knows of an antidote. Aramis, we need to try again, he looks half dead from blood loss, brother," Athos says, horrified at the waxy paleness of the lad's face and the blue tinge to his lips. Aramis pushes the boy's shirt away from the wound and uses a clean rag to wipe away the fresh blood welling up from the cut. "Spirits, and a threaded needle," he barks out to George, one of the trainee medics, and the man hands him a flask and then the needle. Athos takes a clean bandage and wipes away the blood so that Aramis can begin.

"Are there any bits of cloth or dirt…" the Captain asks worriedly.

Aramis pours some of the dark liquid over the entrance wound and shakes his head. "I don't think so, it was the first thing I checked for, I'd had both wounds cleaned and ready when the lad started moaning and he just turned his head and vomited."

"If you wash out the wound will it lessen the effects of the poison?" Athos wonders.

"I don't know," Aramis says miserably, "But we can flush out the entrance and exit wounds with spirits again, it won't hurt in any case."

Athos nods. "Move quickly, brother, they'll be no point trying to purge the poison if he bleeds to death."

Aramis works silently, his expression tense, George hovering close to assist. Athos takes a clean bandage and dips it in the basin of boiled water beside Aramis' instruments and he begins to clean the grime from the boys face. He starts with his forehead, where the cut is healing cleanly and the stitches are holding. He tosses away the soiled linen and takes another, wetting it and cleaning the rest of his face, his heart stuttering when d'Artagnan's eyes open and they look unnaturally bright, his pupils twice their size, looking directly at Athos but not focusing.

"D'Artagnan," Athos says softly, "look at me, lad."

D'Artagnan doesn't appear to hear him, nor do his eyes focus. Aramis is tying off the stitches on the entrance wound and he takes a blade and cuts away the bandage on his chest, checking the stitches and searching for any signs of infection. There is one broken stitch, he tells Athos, the source of the blood on d'Artagnan's shirt earlier, but it doesn't need to be re-sewn. They work together to get the chest wound cleaned and bandaged and with George's help, they turn him on his stomach to close the wound on his back.

"Jacques here says he knows of this poison," Porthos tells them grimly when he re-enters the infirmary, the other Musketeer in tow. "He says there's no antidote."

"He's right, Captain, the healer in our village was my aunt. If a healthy person was poisoned by the plant, they would endure a few days of extreme illness, mainly vomiting, weakness, sometimes hallucinations, but most would survive. I don't know what would happen to someone in d'Artagnan's condition though," the man explains fearfully, "I just can't say."

"Thank you, Jacques," Athos says sincerely. "I've tasked Hubert with securing the perimeter and making sure the Spanish leave peacefully. Go and tell him I want double the watch standing guard tonight, and you are to inform every Musketeer that we are on full alert, understood?"

"Yes, sir," the soldier replies and hurries out of the tent. Aramis has the exit wound mostly stitched when dArtagnan stirs and begins to thrash. Porthos holds the boy's shoulders down as gently as he can without hurting him but d'Artagnan won't settle. He's mumbling and groaning and pushing back against Porthos and Athos crouches down so he is directly in d'Artagnan's line of sight, one hand tangling in the boy's hair.

"Lad, you need to calm yourself," he says soothingly. "It's done, the Spanish are gone and you've made your regiment very proud, you've made _me_ very proud," he adds quietly, heart squeezing painfully. "What you did took an extraordinary amount of courage, lad, now let us take care of you, alright?"

D'Artagnan doesn't give any indication that he's understood anything Athos has told him, nor does he acknowledge the Captain's presence. His eyes are roving without focusing and he's trembling; Porthos is holding him securely so that Aramis can finish and Athos clings to the hope that maybe he's vomited most of the poison out of his system. It takes another quarter of an hour to finishing bandaging the boy and stripping off his bloody clothes and Athos helps Porthos to dress him in clean drawers and a borrowed shirt, d'Artagnan's own shirts all bloodied and ruined, a testament to the suffering he's endured over the past few days. They move him to a cot and cover him with a sheet and a blanket and Athos sinks to the ground beside him, utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Aramis returns, hands scrubbed free of blood, wearing a clean shirt. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in days, Athos notes, and that needs to be remedied at once; the regiment needs their medic fit and healthy and Aramis doesn't appear to be either.

"Go, brother, sleep, I'll call you if he worsens," Athos says gently.

"And the poison? If we're just supposed to let it run its course it could kill him. He's already dehydrated, malnourished and has lost massive quantities of blood. He's suffered two traumatic wounds in four days, it's a miracle infection hasn't set in as well," Aramis catalogues grimly. "I'll sleep here, I shouldn't be far away, just in case…" he says trailing off and Athos thinks Aramis is afraid the lad will slip away if he leaves his side.

"He saved our regiment you know," Porthos says tiredly, dropping onto a cot. "I didn't want him to do it but he saved lives tonight. We're low on shot and powder and medical supplies, and by the time a rider would have reached the General's camp for reinforcements, too many good men would have been dead…that is, if the Spanish weren't bluffing," he says pensively. "Do you think they were bluffing about the rest of their Company being ready to engage? Did the boy do this for nothing?"

"Does it matter?" Athos asks, lifting himself off the cold ground. He drags a cot beside d'Artagnan's and like the others, lays himself down on, his body aching from exhaustion. "They were carrying an armoury on their horses, 12 men with that many firearms riding through the camp would have done enough damage. D'Artagnan knew that even one unnecessary death would have been one too many. Any of us would have done the same thing, yet we tried to stop him, why? We do him a tremendous disservice by allowing our personal feelings for him and Constance cloud our judgement," Athos says sadly.

"He's the youngest man in the regiment, Athos," Aramis reminds him, pulling a blanket over himself.

"Porthos was in the Infantry and you became a Musketeer at his age," Athos tells him.

"Yes, well Porthos was raised in the Court of Miracles and I grew up in a Parisian brothel, _not_ a farm in Gascony. And I was older…you _do_ know he's barely twenty three, don't you? He was just twenty when we first laid eyes on him, couldn't even grow a beard."

Athos nods. "And yet despite that we expect him to lead…and he does, quite effectively."

"His age doesn't matter or even how long he's served, what matters is that he put the lot of us to shame tonight," Pothos says, rising to extinguish the lamps, all aside from one on the floor near d'Artagnan's cot. "Not a word of this to Constance, ever, she has enough to worry about now that Treville's put her in charge of a Garrison full of cadets."

"Quite the pair, aren't they?" Athos muses.

"He uh, he told me some things a few night past. I accused him of being reckless and cavalier. He told me he's afraid of showing weakness in front of the other Musketeers, thinks they'll ridicule him for it, so he just hides everything; fear, pain, illness, anything that would make the others think any less of him," Porthos tells them. "He's twenty three and has a wife to think of and he willingly carries the weight of the responsibility we heap on his shoulders. That either makes him the strongest person I know or the dumbest, I haven't decided which yet," Porthos says, a hint of a smile on his face.

A sound from d'Artagnan startles them, and Athos takes a knee beside the boy, one hand on his face, hoping his touch will soothe him as thrashes around in his restless sleep. Porthos comes to kneel on the other side and he places his hands on d'Artagnan's legs in an attempt to keep him still.

D'Artagnan's eyes fly open and he lets out a hoarse cry, his torso twisting and Athos' heart breaks for the pain he must be in without any laudanum to soothe him.

"Constance?" he breathes, eyes unfocused and pupils dilated, unseeing and glassy.

"She's here, d'Artagnan, she'll be back soon, sleep lad," Athos fibs, stroking his overlong hair away from his face. "Sleep now and she'll be here when you wake."

"Athos, is he warm?" Aramis asks sleepily.

"No, he's cold, his skin is like ice," Athos replied worriedly. "I don't know if it's blood loss or from the poison, but he's very cold." Porthos looks around for some extra blankets and he piles two more on top of their wounded brother, before stretching out to get some rest himself.

D'Artagnan eventually settles but not for long and the night becomes a cycle of suffering for the boy. He spends the next few hours thrashing, mumbling and bathed in a cold sweat, then falling into an exhausted sleep until it begins all over again. When dawn breaks, Athos, Aramis and Porthos can barely stay awake from exhaustion. Twice they'd tried giving him water and twice it came right up and at some point near daybreak the dry heaving started and it had become so unbearably painful for the boy that he'd wept and cried out feebly for Constance and no amount of soothing would calm him, until he simply wore himself out and slumped into unconsciousness in their hands.

"We need assistance," Aramis admits, his face haggard, dark smudges under his bloodshot eyes. Athos agrees; he has a regiment to command, and he needs to send a messenger to the General at once regarding the events of the previous evening and to request supplies and more men.

"Porthos, round up some of his friends. Get Pierre, he's a strong lad, he can help, maybe Lacroix, he seems partial to d'Artagnan," Athos says tiredly.

Porthos clears his throat. "Not Lacroix, we've got enough drama on our plates at the moment."

Aramis frowns. "Why, the boy practically worships him?"

Porthos nods, a sad smile on his lips. "Exactly," he says simply.

"And?" Athos asks, curiously.

"A few nights ago I told d'Artagnan that Lacroix is terrified of him, and I really thought that was true. Until I later realised that it's not fear _or_ admiration; the lad's in love with him," Porthos says, his expression sympathetic. "Of course, it's unrequited and d'Artagnan has absolutely no clue, he probably knows very little of these things, mind you, but anything you do, _please_ , do not let Lacroix sit at his bedside, I don't know how much more misery I can take."

Aramis lets out a soft whistle. "How did I not see that?"

"Trust me, I didn't either, I only worked it out after d'Artgnan was shot; Lacroix looked devastated when we came back to camp, and he's been moping and sulking ever since, poor lad," Porthos tells them.

Aramis sighs and pulls the blankets a little higher over d'Artagnan's chest. "I think everyone that meets d'Artagnan falls a little bit in love with him; not all in the romantic sense mind you, but there's something about him that makes you want to see him smile," Aramis muses fondly.

"He's honorable but he's also _kind_ Aramis, and not many people in Paris know what kindness is anymore," Athos replies, feeling an overwhelming sadness when he realises that this war will most likely steal away most of that innocent thoughtfulness that makes d'Artagnan stand out.

"I must go," Athos says, regretfully. "I need a fresh shirt and my missive for the General must leave immediately."

"I'm not leaving," Porthos informs them. "He thinks I deserted him…I won't let him wake and find me gone."

"He knows you were there, you carried him, brother," Aramis tells him gently. "Athos, I need your help before you go. We need to change his bandages and he must drink some water; if he doesn't we will have a whole new set of worries."

D'Artagnan doesn't stir when the three men carefully clean and change his bandages. The wound on his thigh is no longer a concern and the cut on his forehead is healing neatly. The puncture hole where Aramis has inserted the glass tube to drain his lung is also healing properly but the wound on his chest is red and puffy and the stitches are in tatters, most likely from dry heaving all night. Aramis cleans it carefully and turns to Athos.

"I can't re-stitch this. Lemay warned me against closing a wound that's even the slightest bit inflamed. We'll need to keep an eye on it for now. This one looks fine," the medic says, indicating the neat row of stitches still holding on the boy's side. "We need to turn him and check the exit wound."

D'Artagnan's exit wound seems fine as well, and by the time they clean him up and cover him again, the three men can barely stand. Aramis fills a cup half way with water and they lift him up slightly so that he can drink.

"D'Artagnan, it's Athos, lad, open your eyes," Athos says patiently, lightly slapping at the boy's cheeks. D'Artagnan doesn't open his eyes but he stirs and Porthos lifts him up a bit more so that Aramis can try and get him to drink.

"D'Artagnan, you have to drink the water," Athos tells him firmly. "That is an order from your Captain!"

A soldier through and through d'Artagnan's eyes fly open at Athos' command and although he doesn't speak he slowly drinks the water obediently. A few seconds later all the liquid is expelled onto his shirt.

"This can't continue, Athos," Aramis says, defeated. "Do you think we should send for Constance?"

"Are you asking me if we should bring her to help or because you think he will die?" Athos asks, fearful.

"I don't know, both maybe?"

"If it's that bad, brother, she won't make it here in time," Athos says grimly.

"Athos, if he doesn't drink, he will die for sure. The wound on his chest is a mess, infection could still set in; he's lost more blood than most people can afford to, and he's been poisoned by a substance that I know nothing about. The only way his body can heal with all of those things stacked against him is if he takes water and nourishment.

"He's not going to die," Porthos says forcefully. "Get gone the both of you, send me George to help and I don't want to see either of you back here until you stop behaving like his death is a foregone conclusion!"

There's a loud cry from the bed and a rush of bloody liquid from d'Artagnan's mouth and Athos begins to think that maybe it _is_ time to send for Constance.

* * *

Athos sends 6 men with his missive to the General, heavily armed, all experienced soldiers. He requests another regiment be transferred to them or to break camp and retreat further south, closer to the rest of the French troops. Both requests are denied but at least they receive supplies and munitions, which is better than nothing at all. The General's reply contains a coded message telling Athos to be prepared at any moment to march northward with the bulk of the regiments, their goal to force the Spanish back as far as possible and keep them out of Paris.

Aramis is informed of all of this by Athos when the mess has emptied after the evening meal, and the two men sit alone, debating their next move.

"The worst part of all of this is that DuBois isn't even a career soldier, he's the second son of some minor aristocrat who knows next to nothing about strategy and war," Athos tells him, frustrated, pushing away the cold bowl of stew he'd barely touched. Aramis had very little appetite himself but he'd had no choice but to eat and sleep for a few hours, especially if they are to move out at a moment's notice.

"It almost seems like he's left us here alone as a buffer or maybe even as bait, to keep the Spanish busy while the rest of our troops prepare for the assault," Aramis muses darkly, "I wouldn't be surprised."

"Sitting ducks," Athos replies, frustrated.

"And d'Artagnan? If we do break camp, what are we supposed to do, strap him over his saddle and hope for the best?" Aramis asks, troubled. "He can't be moved, brother, not the way he is. I…I have to be honest I don't know if he'll…"

Athos stops him. "Don't…," the Captain says, as if Aramis keeping it to himself will change something. "Can we send him home? To Paris?"

"How? In a wagon? It'll take days and he doesn't have days, Athos, the poison is killing him in the cruelest way possible, that maggot Spaniard used it to make him suffer, there are other, more potent poisons to put on a sword that kill a man quickly. No, this was deliberate, the Marques poisoned the sword in the event that if he lost, he knew that even a shallow wound would cause D'Artagnan to waste away slowly and painfully. This is his revenge from the grave."

"There must be something we can try," Athos says, his expression shuttered, but he's rubbing his knee, a nervous gesture that Aramis knows is a tell for worry.

"He's dying, Athos, it's the truth whether you want to hear it or not. He's been vomiting for twenty four hours straight; he can't drink, he can't eat and he hasn't passed urine since yesterday. He is less lucid with each hour that passes, from the poison itself as well as from dehydration, and although he has no fever and only a bit of discharge from the wound on his chest, the effects of the poison on his body are slowly killing him," Aramis explains bluntly. This is not the time to spare his friend's feelings, hiding the truth from Athos won't change the facts.

Athos is silent, the Captain's face devoid of all emotion and Aramis presses on.

"I wanted him to fight that duel to give him a fair chance, I was sure that he'd prevail, if I'd doubted his ability for even one moment I wouldn't have suggested it," Aramis says, anguished. "I warned him to stay silent, mind you, _I knew_ , I had a feeling where things were headed but he's mule-headed and too principled for his own good. I could have never imagined that the Marquis was such a dishonorable man," Aramis admits, finally sharing his guilt with someone aside from himself.

Athos scoffs. "Surely you're not blaming yourself? There are a hundred people to blame brother, and you are not among them. The fool General who sent us on that mission in the first place, me, for suggesting d'Aragnan blow up the powder; and the boy himself who would not keep his mouth shut, and the King for sending us to war, the son of a bitch who spawned that snake Alongado, should I go on? The list of the guilty is long, brother, and you are not on it."

Aramis shakes his head, unconvinced. "You know, I still can't believe he did it. He was hurt and exhausted and frightened…oh yes, he hides it well…" he adds at Athos' surprised look, "but he did it, he looked Death in the face and sent him to hell, to lose him now…" Aramis says, trailing off, words failing him.

"I've never seen d'Artagnan show fear," Athos muses soberly. "All three of us had him pinned with our swords the day we met him and he didn't even break a sweat."

"On the road, when he was shot, he looked frightened, it was a fleeting moment and then it was gone. Later, at the farmhouse, he was afraid as well, not of dying, but of dying away from our camp…and from you."

Athos looks astonished. "Away from me? Why? You and Porthos were by his side."

"You're his mentor, Athos, the older sibling he never had, the father he lost, you're second only to Constance in his affections, it's why we risked returning that night, he refused to stay," Aramis explains, grimacing at the memory of that horrible ride back to camp in the rain.

"He reminds me of Thomas," Athos admits, "and at first I thought it would drive me mad, but fortunately D'Artagnan has his own very distinct personality and with time it became easier to bear. Is Porthos with him?"

"Yes, the fool won't leave his side, he thinks D'Artagnan won't remember seeing him at the duel, he's being very melodramatic, even for Porthos. But in truth he'll be devastated if the boy dies, more than the two of us even I think; he believed in him from day one. Do you remember that conversation we had in Treville's office about him? You thought it was too dangerous for him to infiltrate Vadim's inner circle, but Porthos insisted that he could do it, said he was a good judge of character and he'd judged the boy worthy…of course Porthos was right," Aramis says proudly. "We've put that boy through hell, that's God's honest truth and although he came along willingly Porthos always felt he needed…supervision. It gave him a sense of purpose as well, and d'Artagnan was another misfit to add to our ragtag family," Aramis tells him sadly.

The silence between them hangs heavy, both of them lost in their own misery, each with their thoughts of the past three years with d'Artagnan at their sides and the possibility of a future without him. The three of them had been closer than brothers long before the boy had shown up in their lives, but Aramis struggles to see an existence without d'Artagnan's cocky confidence and his boyish charm.

"I need to go," Aramis says finally, when the painful silence between them becomes too much to bear. "I have wounds to check, I've had George and Claude doing it the past few days but I need to have a look myself. We had twelve wounded five days ago before the raid, and I've spent all my time worrying only about d'Artagnan, not much of a regiment medic, am I?"

"Twelve wounded who are also worried about d'Artagnan, Aramis, the entire camp is mourning him prematurely. Some of the men hardly know him but they are in awe of him, he's a hero is their eyes, it's not even about him personally, it's about his courage, and his heart."

Aramis nods and rises. "Let me know the minute you hear from the General. I'll need to prepare d'Artagnan to be moved. If we're breaking camp, we'll use a wagon and he'll go where we go. If he improves then God has sent us a miracle, if he doesn't then he will die with us by his side," Aramis says sombrely, wishing there was something else he could do.

Athos nods and rises. "See to your wounded and meet me in the infirmary," he says. "Maybe you'll get your miracle, you never know."

Aramis puts an arm around Athos' shoulder and pulls him close. "I know you're not much of a believer but it wouldn't hurt to say a prayer or two," Aramis says meaningfully. He's found comfort in his faith in his darkest moments, and right now d'Artagnan, the regiment and probably all of France could use some divine intervention.

Athos smiles and nods. "You are correct, brother, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and give it a go."

Aramis squeezes his Captain's shoulder and turns to leave. "Well then, we have our firstmiracle, now go and pray for our second."

* * *

For the third time in the past hour Porthos manages to get d'Artagnan to take a sip of water that he doesn't spit up.

It's a painstaking task since the lad spends most of his time in a mostly unnatural sleep, but Porthos is stubborn and more recently, has become patient, and he wakes him every quarter of an hour and forces a spoonful of water into his mouth.

The first few times he'd tried it earlier in the day with Aramis, d'Artagnan had spit it up, his abused stomach unable to hold even a drop of liquid. But Porthos had been at it for hours and now he's actually keeping it down. He's sent George to bring broth and he intends to keep trying until D'Artagnan keeps something more substantial in his stomach.

It seems like days have passed when Porthos realises it's only been about twenty four hours since d'Artagnan had been stabbed with a poisoned sword, just 24 hours from having the strength to fight a duel to being too weak to even open his eyes. Porthos has left him alone only long enough to relieve himself throughout all those long hours and he feels ready to collapse, but not ready to give up on d'Artagnan. The more liquid he gets the lad the take, the more chance of survival he has. He knows this from his years as a soldier and seeing men suffer from dysentery. The ones who lived were the once who could take water and broth, the ones who died couldn't keep a drop in their stomachs.

Porthos is prepared to wake him again when d'Artagnan surprises him and opens his eyes on his own.

"Constance?" he says, his voice no more than a hoarse croak, his eyes unfocused but his pupils are no longer unnaturally dilated.

"Do I look like Constance to you?" Porthos says, thrilled that the boy is speaking.

"Porthos," he breathes, turning his head slightly towards the big man. "Where am I?"

"Infirmary lad, you've been ill," he says, keeping it simple. He lifts the boy's head and helps him drink a few sips and takes the cup away before he has too much and vomits again.

"Hurts, Porthos, everywhere," he says drowsily and Porthos feels his heart clench. Aramis said no laudanum until he passes urine, it's the only way they'll know if he's getting better. If they sedate him as he is, he could die.

"Do you need to use the bucket?" Porthos asks, hoping.

D'Artagnan looks confused by the question.

"Do you need to need to take a piss, lad?" he asks again, more bluntly.

"I… think so," he replies but his eyes slip shut as soon as he says it. George arrives with the broth and Porthos tells him to find a jug. When he does, the two of them try to rouse d'Artagnan to use it and after almost a half hour of cajoling and finally downright commanding, d'Artagnan manages to urinate in the jug that Porthos is holding for him.

"Remember this, boy, for when I'm too old to take a piss on my own, you hear?" he tells a dozing d'Artagnan, washing his hands in a basin. "George, get Aramis, now!" he tells the young man and he places the jug on the floor for Aramis to see.

Aramis and Athos enter the tent a few moments later, a rush of freezing cold air following behind them before the tent flap falls back into place, their expressions tense and worried.

"He peed in the jug," Porthos says proudly, as if d'Artagnan was a toddler using the chamber pot for the first time.

"How?" Aramis asks in wonder.

"What do you mean _how_? I helped him, you idiot," Porthos grouses. "He's kept a tiny bit of water down, George brought broth, we need to feed him that too."

Aramis sinks onto a cot and lets out a long breath. The medic is functioning on three hours of sleep and it shows. "We tried so many times, how did you manage it?"

"Persistence, brother. After you left to sleep I started waking him every quarter of an hour and spoon feeding him water. He's finally started keeping it down," Porthos says tiredly.

"Porthos, you need a rest, some food and a change of clothes," Athos says kindly. "I promise you we will continue to feed him water and broth, alright?"

"Not a chance, I'm not leaving him."

"If you're staying, help me change his bandages," Aramis says, washing his hands.

"I'll help you. Porthos, you don't have to leave, just get some sleep at least, brother," Athos tells him, indicating the empty cots.

"What part of _no_ do you not understand, Captain?" Porthos replies and turns to help Aramis with d'Artagnan. With the blankets off, Porthos thinks that the boy already looks emaciated, even though he knows that's not possible after only a day of being ill. But he'd not been eating properly for weeks and had little appetite after being shot so he certainly has lost some weight. Aramis works quickly but d'Artagnan begins to shiver; it's freezing inside the tent and he's stripped to a thin shirt and his drawers.

"The wound on his chest is still oozing," Aramis says, concerned, "The rest look fine. I've cleaned it with spirits but we need to keep an eye on it.

"Do you still think he's dying, Aramis?" Porthos challenges, covering d'Artagnan carefully. "Because I knew he'd be fine."

"Damn you, Porthos you make it sound like I want him to die! I'm no physician, God knows I never wanted to be medical officer, I'm just terrified like the rest of you! If we continue to get him to drink, he has a chance, if we can't, I don't know…because I actually do not _know_!" Aramis shouts angrily.

"Well I _do_ know! He's going to be right as rain in no time. As long as we don't give up on him," Porthos says accusingly.

"You don't really think I'd give up on him do you, Porthos?" Aramis asks, his expression shocked and hurt. "I'd never give up on any of you or any other man in the regiment for that matter. I've barely left his side, I am trying my best!"

"You're both being ridiculous," Athos says clearly frustrated. "Enough of discussing whether the lad will live or die, let's just do our best to help him, alright?

Aramis and Porthos ignore Athos and continue to glare angrily at each other for a moment, until both men reluctantly concede and turn to d'Artagnan. Porthos reaches for the bowl of broth.

"Whoever's staying, I need to get him up, we have to try the broth," Porthos tells them, and just like that the animosity between them melts away and the three of them work together to try to get d'Artagnan to eat.

* * *

D'Artagnan wakes to pain, white hot agony assaulting every inch of his body. His side, his back, his chest, his head and most horribly his insides feel twisted and bruised and when he opens his mouth to speak, bile comes rushing up.

A sea of hands descend and he's sitting up, a bowl held under his head, fresh agony assaulting him as he's jerked forward. His stomach rebels and he's choking, muscles straining, wounds aching, head pounding and to his utter shame, tears prick his eyes and he lets out a sob.

When his insides stop rebelling, his body goes boneless but he doesn't fall, strong arms are holding him and he leans in gratefully. His breath comes in short, painful gasps and it takes a few moments for his heart to stop racing and he remains like that, supported by Athos, he thinks, until his breathing evens and his heartbeat slows and he closes his eyes and hopes for sleep to take him away from the agony.

A sharp slap to his face and his eyes snap open. Aramis is standing in front of him, his expression apologetic. "You're not going back to sleep, lad," he tells him firmly. "You've been lying there for two full days, you need to get up and get the blood moving in your legs, come on," he says and he's being lifted by Athos and Porthos, his stockinged feet meeting the freezing cold ground with a jolt. He cries out in pain, his entire torso feels like every inch has been flayed but he does his best to take a few steps, he doesn't want to disappoint his brothers.

"Alright, that's enough for now," Aramis says, "get him back to the cot, lads, but sitting up, we need to try the broth again."

D'Artagnan is helped back to the cot and Porthos sits beside him on his left, keeping him upright with an arm around his waist, hand resting on d'Artagnan's uninjured right side.

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asks, his thoughts and memories muddled. He remembers the flashes of the raid, and has vague memories of fighting a duel, but the rest is hazy and jumbled.

"You fought the Spanish Captain, his blade was poisoned and you've been very ill," Athos explains patiently.

"Did I win?" d'Artagnan queries, trying to remember.

"Of course you did!" Porthos says from beside him, voice full of pride. "You sent that bastard straight to hell!"

"D'Artagnan, the only way that you will get better is if you keep some food and water in your stomach. Otherwise…" Aramis tells him, but Porthos cuts him short.

"Otherwise nothing! Athos, bring the broth, let's try again," the big man says forcefully.

Athos takes a knee in front of him, bowl and spoon in his hand and he brings both close to d'Artagnan's mouth. "Open up, lad," the Captain says kindly.

"You're joking, surely?" d'Artagnan says, stomach churning and ashamed. "I can't eat that, and when I'm ready to I'll feed myself thank you!"

Athos hands Aramis the bowl, and his expression goes stony. "D'Artagnan, Porthos has single handedly managed to keep you alive by force feeding you water and broth for the past 48 hours," Athos tells him sternly. "He's barely slept, he's hardly eaten, and you will show your appreciation for his dedication by opening your mouth or I swear I will have him hold you still while I pour the entire bowl down your throat, do I make myself clear?"

D'Artagnan blinks, his eyes only now truly focusing and he sees the anger in Athos' gaze, and it makes his heart stutter. He is utterly mortified that Porthos has been forced to take care of him like a small child, and hurt that Athos seems so furious with him.

"Porthos, I'm sorry," he says, embarrassed. "I…"

Porthos lets out a sound like a growl. "You're sorry? Are you daft, boy? It wasn't a chore, we're brothers! Now have some soup so you can get back on your own two feet!"

D'Artagnan swallows, his throat convulsing just at the thought. "Perhaps later," he says, hoping they will understand. He remembers someone feeding him the thin soup at some earlier moment, but his stomach had rebelled violently and he has no intention of going through that again.

"Later you will be dead, lad. Every moment that you don't eat and drink your organs begin to die. You are already weak as a kitten and barely hanging on. If Porthos lets go you will keel over, you are a soldier, a warrior, do you plan to waste away on that cot?" Aramis asks him grimly.

 _Of course not_ , d'Artagnan thinks, surprised that Aramis would even suggest it, but it seems like a Herculean task at the moment. Any clarity he'd had over these past few minutes has left him and he feels the fuzzy confusion return and his head drops forward and he can't seem to stop it.

"Porthos, we need to get him up again!" Aramis barks and the two of them drag d'Artagnan to his feet, pain exploding in his side as they do so.

"Damn you all," he sobs, the pain subsiding in tiny increments, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

"That's it, keep cursing us if it keeps you awake, brat," Porthos tells him firmly. They force him to take a few more steps before they let him sit again, Athos now at his side.

"Aramis, get something to tie his hair back, or else I'll cut it all off," Athos threatens, "Porthos, let's try the broth again."

With no choice in the matter and his dignity in tatters, d'Artagnan opens his mouth obediently and allows Porthos feed him. He stubbornly refuses to meet his gaze, opening his mouth and swallowing at Porthos' command but sullenly avoiding any other interaction with the lot of them. It's a painstakingly slow process; one spoon and then they wait to see if he keeps it down, then another and more waiting. Aramis ties his sweaty hair back with a string, keeping it clear of his face and Porthos feeds him a total of six spoonfuls of broth and then another 2 of water. When they are done, d'Artagnan feels like he's ready to collapse and sleep for two days but his body gets no respite and neither does his pride when Aramis comes forward with a metal jug.

"You, um, you have to urinate, lad," he says, clearly pained to be asking d'Artagnan to do this in front of all of them.

D'Artagnan's mouth tightens and a muscle works in his jaw, his anger simmering and he silently refuses to comply.

"You have one minute to try and do it on your own or else Porthos will hold it for you… _the jug as well_ ," Athos hisses and d'Artagnan gasps.

"Why are you all trying so hard to humiliate me?" he asks despondently, most of the words slurring together. He feels wrecked, every inch of his body aching and he's trying valiantly to keep the broth in his stomach. He despises that he's been a burden on his friends and he feels overwhelmingly ashamed that they've been taking care of him beyond just tending to his wounds. He most certainly does not want to waste away and die in the infirmary, but being bullied into urinating is the last straw. He grabs the jug from Aramis and throws it with all his strength across the tent and then falls onto his side on the cot, exhausted, shutting his eyes and shutting everyone out.

"No one is trying to humiliate you, d'Artagnan," Athos says quietly, rising from the cot and lifting d'Artagnan's legs so that he is no longer lying half off the narrow bed. "We want to save you, lad, not shame you, I don't know how we'll face Constance if you don't let us help you," Athos tells him, kneeling beside him, one hand coming to rest on d'Artagnan's arm. "There's no shame in needing our assistance, we are your brothers, your family, lad."

"If you care so much just let me sleep," he mumbles desperately.

"It's because we care so much that I can't let you sleep until we see if you can pass urine," Aramis explains apologetically. "Even a drop and then you can sleep, I promise."

D'Artagnan carefully rolls onto his back and hisses. The stitches on his back are painful and itchy and he needs a moment before he can speak. "Help me sit," he says finally, not meeting anyone's gaze. Porthos gently lifts him up and hands him the dreaded jug. Thankfully, the three of them move so that they are standing behind him and looking away. D'Artagnan fumbles with his drawers and the hand holding the jug is shaking but he manages to take a blasted piss. When he's done, he calls hoarsely for Porthos to come take it away. By now he's trembling, from cold and exhaustion and he can't lie back on his own but he won't ask for help either, he's had enough of being manhandled and bullied for today. He waits patiently, hoping the trembling and the weakness will pass and he will be able to lie down on his own. When another moment or two pass and he still can't move, he feels tears of frustration burn in his eyes but he's shaking too hard to even wipe them away.

When Porthos comes and lays him down gently, covering his battered body to his neck d'Artagnan doesn't say a word, he just closes his eyes and prays for sleep to take him.

* * *

Again, massive thanks to everyone for their support! I've written another story, somewhere around 45,000 words or so of a modern!au where our Musketeers, Constance and Treville are spies and I just realised that I can't post it here due to language and sexual content. If anyone want to read it, I will start posting it at Ao3 sometime in the next few days. Cheers!


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks so much for the reviews, the faves and the follows. Please see the end of the chapter for some notes, thanks!

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Chapter 7

* * *

D'Artagnan wakes sometime in the night to a silent and darkened infirmary. Aramis is sleeping soundly on a cot beside him, quiet snores escaping the older man now and again. It's cold and d'Artagnan is shivering, and he feels the never ending need to vomit. He spends a good five minutes swallowing convulsively and breathing through his nose, doing his best to not spit up. Each time he vomits, his insides ache, his wounds throb and it feels like someone is pounding a drum in his head. Every time he opens his eyes he begs his brothers for something to lessen the pain and each time they tell him mournfully that they cannot give him anything until the poison is completely gone from his body. There was a moment over the past few hours where it had been so horrific he'd actually found himself wondering if death would be preferable.

He has no idea how many days have actually passed since the raid and then the duel. Athos said Porthos had been taking care of him for two days but he doesn't remember when they'd had that conversation, had it been yesterday? The day before? He still can't put it into perspective in his head. When he is lucid, the combination of pain and vertigo leave him muddled and confused, everything around him distorted and disjointed. He remembers bit and pieces of the past week or so but he can't piece it all together, he wonders if he ever will.

One thing he does remember clearly though is Athos telling him that he'd made the regiment proud, and Athos himself proud. It stuck with him because Athos does not easily bestow praise, and if he's honest with himself, the one thing he's craved most since coming to Paris is Athos' approval, the subtle admiration he sometimes sees in the other man's eyes when he's accomplished something that merits his Captain's acknowledgement. D'Artagnan clings to Athos' words like a talisman, especially since pride is not something he feels at the moment, all he feels is weak, sick, a burden to the others, a soldier reduced to having his comrades feed him like a baby and hold his privates while he pees. It makes him furious that if he dies, it won't be from the wound he sustained honourably but from the poison that is not only stealing his life but his self-respect.

With Athos weighted down by the responsibilities that come with his position, it's been mostly Aramis and Porthos tending to his physical needs, and d'Artagnan is exceedingly grateful that his brothers have not left his care to anyone else. It's enough that he needs to be looked after like an invalid, but quite another for the ones doing the care-taking to be strangers. Both of them have been run ragged by his pathetic need for round-the-clock care and it tortures him that he's put them through so much trouble. He wonders darkly how proud his wife would be if she could see him now, wasting away, more often than not covered in his own vomit, incapable of sitting up on his own, let alone standing on his own two feet. Constance is the kindest and most loving woman he has ever encountered but she is also strong, vibrant and alive, and he thanks God that she is far away, safe in Paris and not here, watching him face this Golgotha with the strength and the will of a man five times his age.

Aramis had warned him his recovery would be slow if he didn't cooperate. There are moments though that he wants to scream in frustration, since it seems that no one understands exactly what he is going through; one step forward, two back. For every bit of food and water he keeps down there are hours of dry-heaving and mind-bending nightmares that are driving him mad. When they drag him from his bed, he dutifully tries his best to walk on his own, only to find himself collapsing like a puppet with cut strings after a few steps. The jug they've been using for a chamber pot is the worst, the humiliation it triggers the minute it's produced is excruciating. The fact that Aramis and the others think he's not cooperating simply adds to his misery tenfold; do they have so little faith in him that they think he's just being contrary and churlish or are they right and he simply isn't trying hard enough? D'Artagnan can no longer tell since it seems like he no longer knows himself.

On the one hand he wants to close his eyes and pray for a dark and dreamless sleep, maybe he'll be lucky and not wake, he thinks morbidly, but on the other he wants to try and force himself to his feet, to put aside all the self-pity and self-loathing and just be off the blasted cot. Impulsively, he decides it will be the latter.

He pushes the blanket off first, and he grips the sides of the cot tightly, planning to use the sturdy wooden frame as support to propel himself upwards. If he can get himself seated the rest will be easy he decides stubbornly. It's cold and he's wearing drawers and a thin, grey shirt that he doesn't recognise, although his mind is so befuddled he really can't be sure of that. D'Artagnan shivers but he's not shaking like earlier, it's more bearable and he forces the discomfort aside. His hair is tied back neatly, one less annoyance he acknowledges, although he's angry that Athos threatened to cut it off. He carefully begins pulling himself up and one by one his injuries let themselves be known. The exit wound on his back first, then the entrance wound in his side, and the bullet wound in his chest, this last one being slightly more tolerable, but the injuries he'd sustained in the duel are fresh and agonising. With his trademark Gascon stubbornness though, d'Artagnan grits his teeth and by the time he is sitting up he is panting and sweating, but he's done it on his own. It's a victory sweeter than any he can remember.

But it's a victory short lived. D'Artagnan has no memory of falling off the cot but he lands on the freezing ground hard, face first, his torso taking the brunt of the fall and he's too stunned and winded to even cry out. He lays there, his breath coming in harsh gasps, every part of his aching body screaming at him angrily, a cacophony of voices in his head calling him fool, idiot, selfish child, and he covers his ears with trembling hands to silence the voices, to silence the buzzing that's taken their place, but it won't stop, it just keeps getting louder and louder and when he can no longer bear it he screams.

* * *

A skirmish on the northern perimeter of the camp fills the infirmary with wounded.

A heavily armed French patrol had left at dawn to rendezvous with two scouts and escort them back to camp. On their return, just a quarter of a league outside of the Musketeers camp they'd found about twenty Spanish soldiers setting traps; steels jaws that would snap a horse's leg like a twig and digging holes in the frozen ground for both man and animal to fall victim to. The French were outnumbered but they were on horseback and had come upon the enemy unit unawares; the Spaniards had been sloppy and careless and although it was twenty men to eight Musketeers, the French were carrying an arsenal of firearms. The Spanish unit capitulated relatively quickly; it was obvious that they would suffer heavy losses and their Lieutenant had ordered his men to drop their weapons and surrender.

As the Musketeers were in the process of tying them together to march back to camp, one lone soldier rebelled and stabbed one of the French scouts in the neck with a hidden dagger, killing him instantly. That was all it took for the Spanish to feel emboldened and suddenly all hell broke loose. The Spanish dove for their discarded weapons and although some of them were already immobilised by the French they still managed to put up a strong resistance. The tally was twelve Spanish dead, the other eight wounded and left behind by the Musketeers who had suffered one fatality – the scout – and with the remaining seven all injured in one manner or the other they'd had no choice but to abandon their intention to take prisoners and head back to camp to report to Athos and have their wounds tended to.

The patrol had been led by Hubert, who was now being tended to by Claude, while giving Athos a full report on the skirmish.

"Captain, we'll have to go back and clear the traps, otherwise a large section of road and land around it will be inaccessible to us," the Musketeer warns Athos, the gash in his leg now cleaned and stitched and he begins to dress.

Apprehensive, Athos nods absently, taking in the scene around him. Fortunately most of the wounds suffered by the patrol did not appear to be life threatening and with Aramis, George and Claude all working together the Musketeers had been tended to quickly and efficiently. Only two men would need to remain in the infirmary under Aramis' watchful eye which is a small comfort in Athos' larger sea of troubles. There has still been no word from the General and the Spanish not only know their exact location but they are becoming bolder by the day. Their precarious position seems to be of no consequence to the haughty aristocrat and Athos fears that if they are left without reinforcements and vulnerable their regiment will surely be attacked before they are ordered to break camp and march north.

Refusing to simply wait idly, Athos has the regiment on full alert. Careful not to give away any specifics, he orders his Musketeers to have their weapon is perfect order and at the ready, their kit packed, and their supplies protected by three times the usual amount of men. He also splits the camp into three groups, to sleep, eat, and patrol the perimeter in shifts, to ensure that even if the Spanish launch a lighting attack on the camp, the Musketeers will not be caught with their breeches around their ankles.

One by one the men leave the infirmary until it's just Claude and George left to clean up the mess of bloodied rags and bowls of crimson water and Aramis, who is checking on the two soldiers whose injuries require that they remain under his watchful eye. Moved away from the earlier chaos that had overtaken the infirmary, d'Artagnan lies listlessly in the far left corner of the tent, mostly unresponsive since Aramis had found him during the night, curled up on the ground, clearly hallucinating, and screaming. It had taken Aramis a half hour of kneeling beside him on the ground, talking to the boy and soothing him like a skittish colt before d'Artagnan had finally come back to himself. Athos is eternally grateful that he hadn't been present to witness that, such a scene would have haunted him for months, same for Porthos who would have found a way to blame himself for the lad's state, whereas Aramis, with his deep faith and endless patience, is able to compartmentalise these difficult moments and move forward.

Athos steals a precious minute from his pressing duties to have a quick look at the boy. On an empty cot beside d'Artagnan Athos find the boy's leather breeches and doublet, both cleaned carefully by Porthos and the bloody tears in the worn leather neatly stitched by the big man's own hand, his boots cleaned and buffed, sitting on a grain sack below the cot. On top of his clothes lie his pistols, his sword in its scabbard and his main gauche, all meticulously cleaned and shined and ready to be taken up by the boy the minute he gets well. Porthos, with his relentless optimism was adamant that he would need his gear any day now and he'd laid it all out for him earlier that morning.

Athos takes a knee beside d'Artagnan's cot and with his hand trembling slightly with apprehension he checks the lad for fever, thankful that his skin is cool to the touch. The stitches are gone from his forehead, something that makes his face seem softer, less harsh and ravished by suffering, a clean, red line healing neatly on his brow. His skin is cool to the touch and his hair falls loose around his face, freshly washed by George, who along with Porthos had given the boy a thorough bed bath earlier in the day, after his fall from the cot had left d'Artagnan covered in a fine layer of dirt, and Aramis concerned about infection. Porthos had lamented that d'Artagnan had barely acknowledged them and offered no assistance but he had fortunately taken a few spoons of water and broth, something that greatly relieved the distraught Porthos.

Athos snakes one hand into the boy's hair and strokes gently, grimacing when he remembers threatening to cut it all off. D'Artagnan is not a vain lad by nature, but when he doesn't have a war to worry about or treacherous First Ministers threatening to tear them apart, Athos has caught him taking care with is appearance, especially if a certain young lady, now thankfully his wife, would be in attendance. As a boy from the farm, he is also fastidious about cleanliness, streams and lakes abundant in his region and water plentiful, as opposed to the filth and the stench of Paris, where clean water for bathing was a precious commodity and a luxury, not a necessity. He'll be glad to wake and find himself clean, his beard neatly groomed by the other lads, and wearing freshly washed underclothes…at least this is Athos' hope.

Seeing him laid so low is devastating for Athos. D'Artagnan is the most vibrant person he has ever known, and what worries the Captain most is that he has begun to suspect that the debilitating physical effects of being poisoned have robbed him of the will to fight to get well. The lad had been walking around camp two days after taking a bullet to the chest, and now he is like an entirely other person, someone completely unrecognisable to his friends. Two days previous he'd spent more energy fighting with the three of them to leave him alone than he had trying to walk and eat. Athos is sure that his stubborn Gascon pride has been seriously wounded by the fact that he is not yet capable of taking care of himself and this…coupled with the fact that the poison and dehydration seem to be playing ticks on his mind…is slowly stealing the boy away from them.

Athos is suddenly aware that d'Artagnan is no longer sleeping but he's doing a valiant job of trying to keep this fact from his Captain. Athos slowly removes his hand from the lad's hair and d'Artagnan immediately turns away from Athos, eyes stubbornly shut as if he's simply shifting in his sleep but the tense lines around his mouth give him away. Athos is torn between dragging him to his feet and shaking some sense into him and leaving him to sulk like a child, but it will be neither because d'Artagnan's eyes fly open and he turns his body onto his side with a soft cry of pain, and dry-heaves over the edge of the cot, nothing substantial in his stomach to come up. The Captain grabs him gently by the shoulders and helps lay him back down, the agony he sees on the boy's face heart wrenching.

Distraught, Athos gets some clean linen to wipe the boy's lax face and he realises that he has fallen back into an unnatural sleep. Not knowing what else to do he calls out for Aramis, and when the medic appears at his side Athos quickly takes his leave; he will not be fit to lead his regiment if he spends one more moment watching d'Artagnan slip away.

* * *

Notes; this is the proverbial 'calm before the storm' because I'm sure you know that d'Artagnan needs a wake up call, and it's coming;) Also, I can't post the Modern!AU I am posting at AO3 here due to adult content BUT if you'd like to read it I am posting under the same screen name at that site and the story is called Lonely Winds Will Call My Name. I am reluctant to post a link due to the adult content so if you're over 18, have a look at AO3 if you are so inclined. THANKS SO MUCH for your support, it means the world to me x


	8. Chapter 8

The attack that Athos had been dreading comes at dawn two days after the skirmish and not wholly unexpected. The evening patrol had warned the Captain that there had been activity in the Spanish-held areas to the north, an unusual amount of wagons arriving at the camp that they'd raided nine days earlier. The Musketeers were all anxious and tense and at the very first sound of horses approaching Athos put Henri and Lacroix in their saddles with orders to ride like the hounds of hell were on their heels and bring help. The two young men are exceptionally skilled horsemen but it would be hours before the Musketeers would actually know if they'd survived the ride almost directly through the invading Spanish forces.

The first assault comes swiftly and brutally, and in the fighting Athos goes down with a slash across his chest while trying to shield an injured comrade and is carried to the infirmary where only George remains to tend to the wounded. A dozen men have already been brought in and George is terrified; he's quickly proven to be a skilled medic but he's not the bravest soul at the best of times, which is why Claude is in the thick of the battle and he's been left behind. When Hubert and Laurent bring their seriously wounded Captain into the infirmary the medic-in-training decides he has only one choice; d'Artagnan.

"Listen to me," George tells the unsteady and confused d'Artagnan, holding him up by his shoulders. "Athos is bleeding to death, there are two men unconscious and burning with fever, another dozen or so doused with laudanum that can't defend themselves and I can't do this alone!" he shouts frantically in d'Artagnan's face, and he lets go of the Gascon and hands him his breeches. "You must help me!"

The older man sounds frenzied and terrified and if there was any part of d'Artagnan that was prepared to resist, the fact that it's _Athos_ is enough to send a shot of adrenaline coursing through his sluggish blood.

Automatically, d'Artagnan struggles into his clothes, his trembling fingers not nimble enough to do up his laces but he manages to get his sword belt around his waist and that will have to do. He is too unsteady to try and put on his boots so he leaves them and takes a few halting steps in his stockinged feet towards Athos who is lying on the surgery table, bathed in blood. George has removed his leather armour and doublet and the young medic rips open the Captain's shirt to get to the wound. At that moment d'Artagnan's stomach rebels; he's not sure if it's from the ugly wound on Athos' chest or just the continuation of the painful cycle of eating, vomiting and sleeping that has become his miserable existence but he fights the convulsions threatening to empty the tiny bit of liquid he's consumed and with shaking hands he takes a clean, wet rag from George and starts wiping the blood away from the wound so the trainee medic can get a better look.

"It needs to be stitched at once; I'm going to pour spirits over it to clean it and he will probably wake, can you keep him still?" George asks urgently.

"No," d'Artagnan says, ashamed, "but _I_ can pour the spirits and clean the wound if you can hold him."

George hands d'Artagnan the flask and with shaking hands he pours the liquid over his Captain's chest. The sharp sting of the alcohol rouses Athos and his eyes fly open and he jerks upwards, instinctively trying to get away from the pain. George is holding him down with his hands on the Captain's shoulders and d'Artagnan regretfully pours more of the burning liquid over the wound, startled when blue-green eyes lock with his and Athos says his name.

"D'Artagnan…?" his Captain asks in wonder.

D'Artagnan feels a tear escape and roll down his cheek at the look on his mentor's face; it's a tear of shame, and he knows he'll have to deal that that later, after Athos has been tended to.

"Captain, this is going to hurt," d'Artagnan says hoarsely, cleaning the wound for the final time. Athos doesn't flinch, doesn't move a muscle and he allows the Gascon to continue to clean the wound and wipe away the blood. George examines the slash for any bits of cloth and then grabs a threaded needle and begins the painstaking task of closing the gaping wound on Athos' chest. D'Artagnan is trembling from weakness and his head is assaulted by vertigo, but he grabs Athos hand in his own bloody one and holds on for dear life.

Outside they can hear the battle raging, pistols, muskets, sword on sword by thankfully no cannons. D'Artagnan hadn't been aware of anything when it had begun, he realises, and he'd only been roused from his stupor when George had forced him awake. Had he become so useless that the deafening sounds of a furious battle being fought hadn't stirred him from his slumber? In truth though he feels weaker than a newborn colt, his legs barely keeping him upright, but when Athos squeezes his hand feebly he momentarily closes his eyes and tries to ground himself, taking strength from the man who lies before him and d'Artagnan suddenly feels purpose again.

When George is done he is clearly exhausted, and he stumbles back, leaving d'Artagnan alone with Athos while he tries to catch his breath. D'Artagnan, still clinging to Athos' hand, begins to hear a buzzing in his ears and he gasps, nearly tumbling forward onto his injured Captain.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos commands weakly and at once the Gascon rights himself, blinking away the dizziness slowly and carefully. George returns and they quickly bandage Athos, who no longer has a full hold on consciousness, and the Captain's eyes slip shut and his face goes lax. Fearful, d'Artagnan checks that his Captain is still breathing and has a steady pulse before he lets out the breath he's been holding.

"George," d'Artagnan says, gently removing his hand from Athos', carelessly wiping the blood from his hand on his white shirt. "I need you to load my pistols and bring them to me," he tells the medic urgently. "Move that barrel, so that it's about two yards directly in front of the opening to the tent and help me to sit on it!"

George's first reaction is utter confusion but d'Artagnan barks out his name again and the young man springs into action. He loads d'Artagnan's pistols and brings his own as well, and he helps the trembling Gascon sit on the barrel next to Athos and in front of the tent opening.

"Take your sword and pistols and position yourself near the injured. Like you said, they can't defend themselves, George, it's up to us, alright?" he tells the older man and George nods and moves another barrel near the injured Musketeers and sits, sword in his scabbard, pistols in his hands.

D'Artagnan is absolutely terrified; not for himself, but for Athos and the regiment. If his Captain dies he will be a ship adrift, a part of him will slip away with the man he calls brother, but it's the regiment that will suffer most. Aramis and Porthos are brave and capable leaders but Athos is the heart of the Musketeers, d'Artagnan can't imagine them fighting this war without his strong, solid presence. Every part of him is screaming to close his eyes and just shut everything out, something he's ashamed to admit he's been doing even in his lucid moments. Every spoon of soup fed to him was like a knife in his heart, every time the dreaded jug appeared a sword in his gut. Add in the humiliating bed baths, the frustrated anger from Aramis, Athos' quiet disappointment, the heartbreaking cajoling from Porthos, the shame is almost too much to bear. He has never in his life felt such a debilitating physical weakness and accepting help from his friends, his equals, has left his self-esteem in tatters.

There's no time to wallow though because the tent flap goes up and d'Artagnan freezes. His vision is blurry and he can't get to his feet but he raises his pistols in trembling hands. George cries out for him to shoot and d'Artagnan instinctively fires one shot, felling the Spanish soldier as he comes at d'Artagnan with his sword.

"George, reload!" d'Artagnan hisses as the medic appears at his side and takes the spent pistol from d'Artagnan's hand, replacing it with his own which hadn't been fired. The medic doesn't have time to reload though when they both need to fire again as two more men follow their comrade into the tent, both falling dead from the unexpected resistance they'd found in the infirmary. D'Artagnan has one shot left when another shadow appears in the entry and he nearly weeps with relief when he realises that it's not another enemy soldier, it's Aramis.

George nearly tackles the older man, rambling on about Athos' condition and insisting that it was d'Artagnan who'd saved the day, telling Aramis how he'd positioned himself fearlessly in front of the entrance even though he was unable to stand. All of this is a noisy blur in his brain and d'Artagnan feels a loud dissonance of sounds in his head and he gasps, dropping his unfired pistol and tumbling forward.

He hits the ground with a thump, his wounds screaming in pain, and Aramis and George are lifting him carefully, sitting him back on the barrel, Aramis patting gently at his cheeks.

"Come on, boy, you've just saved your Captain, open your eyes and take your praise!" Aramis says sternly.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan says at once, head popping up, eyes open, blinking rapidly against the dizziness.

"Of course you are!" Aramis insists. "George, reload those pistols. Reinforcements have arrived but we're not out of danger yet. The wounded are too many to count, are we equipped to deal with them, lad?"

George looks fearful but he nods. "Yes sir, we are."

"Athos?"

"Cleaned and stitched, it was ghastly but D'Artagnan assisted and we got it done," the young medic says, a tiny bit of pride inching into his voice.

"His stitching is neater than yours," d'Artagnan says honestly. A fierce wave of nausea steals his breath and Aramis rushes forward with a bowl. There's nothing to come out, the liquid in the bowl is just crimson spit, the blood a result of irritation and not internal bleeding Aramis assures him. But d'Artagnan's had enough, he's done, he can't keep himself upright even a minute longer and he asks Aramis, embarrassed, if he can finally lie down.

"Of course you can, lad," Aramis says soothingly, pulling him to his feet and leading him to a cot ad helping him sit. "The two of you have done an exemplary job keeping your comrades safe and saving your Captain's life, you've made the whole regiment proud."

"Ugh, the last time you said I'd made you proud I was later stabbed with a poisoned sword," d'Artagnan says, trying for humour but his words are slurring, "keep your praise to yourself, brother," he finishes weakly.

Aramis laughs; it's the first time d'Artagnan has heard that sound in days and it warms him inside. A few Musketeers have entered the infirmary and are dragging away the dead Spanish soldiers, clearing the way for more wounded to be brought in. Outside, d'Artagnan is relieved to hear less gunfire and more French voices shouting orders so he assumes the reinforcements Aramis mentioned have indeed arrived to relieve the overwhelmed Musketeers.

"Aramis, you should move Athos, settle him somewhere closer to me so that I can look after him," d'Artagnan says, exhausted and in pain but determined.

Aramis nods. "Soon. You get some rest, I will be needing your help soon, can I count on you, lad?"

"Yes, I promise," he replies and he feels a tiny flare of hope that he will be able to keep that promise. Although he's asked Aramis to help him to a bed, d'Artagnan does not lie down. If he does, he will once again fall into a restless slumber, filled with nightmares fuelled by self-pity so he remains as he is seated, his feet freezing without the protection of his boots, his shirt damp with Athos' blood. He shivers in the coldness of the tent and the pain in his side is becoming more persistent with each passing moment. Just as he is considering collapsing onto the cot and sliding off to sleep, he hears his name called weakly; Athos!

D'Artagnan struggles to rise, and struggle is an understatement since every movement he makes is agony on his wounds. But he gets to his feet and stumbles the short distance to the surgery table, where Athos is now moving restlessly and calling his name.

"D'Artagnan, where are you?" his Captain asks weakly and another tear appears and runs down the Gascon's cheek and he brushes it away quickly. He's never seen Athos in such a state and it frightens him to the core.

"Right here, Captain," he says soothingly, one hand cupping the older man's cheek.

Athos is searching his gaze as if he's looking for something hidden or false. "Are you alright, lad?" he asks hoarsely.

D'Artagnan has no words, he is too stunned by the question. His Captain, his brother, is gravely injured and inquiring about d'Artagnan's health. He feels a rush of shame that leaves his knees weak and he swallows a few times before he can speak. "I'm better, Captain," d'Artagnan manages to reply, his hand moving from Athos' pinched features to his dishevelled hair and he pushes it away from his face neatly like the older man has done for him so many times.

"Thank you," Athos says, his voice no more than a whisper. "You saved my life, you and George."

More tears sting his eyes but d'Artagnan doesn't try to stop them. He's done nothing more than what Athos or Aramis or Porthos have done for him on more than one occasion, there is no need for gratitude, they are brothers, family, he'd lay down his life at that very moment if he had to for any of them, no questions asked and simply based on those facts alone.

"Don't ever thank me, Captain, such things should never be said among brothers," d'Artagnan tells him, his voice cracking with emotion. "Just rest, I'll be here."

Athos smiles, something that is rare at the best of times, d'Artagnan notes and it makes his heart stutter. "I know, lad, I know."

When the Captain's eyes slip shut d'Artagnan feels a horrible moment of fear until he sees the steady rise and fall of the older man's chest and his rigid body relaxes slightly. D'Artagnan gently pulls back his shaking hand and steadies himself on the surgery table. He doesn't want to leave Athos but he can no longer stand. He's freezing and exhausted and his stockinged feet are squelching in the Captain's spilled blood. He looks around the infirmary for someone who isn't occupied with the wounded and he sees Jacques, a bleeding cut on the man's arm, but mostly whole and he calls out for him. The older Musketeer looks at d'Artagnan like he's seen a ghost and he hurries over to him, one hand going under the Gascon's elbow to steady him.

"Dear God, d'Artagnan, are you alright?" he asked, shocked.

D'Artagnan simply nods, his throat convulsing as he fights a bout of nausea. "Jacques, we need to move Athos somewhere that I can look after him," he says finally when he finds his voice. "Can you find someone to help us please?"

"Of course. Listen, you go rest, I'll have him moved beside you, alright?" the other man says, his expression still clearly shocked at finding d'Artagnan on his feet. D'Artagnan nods and turns to cover the few feet between the surgery table and his cot but to his horror, he finds himself falling. Fortunately Jacques manages to catch him around the middle before he hit the ground.

"Easy, brother, I've got you," the Musketeer says and he helps d'Artagnan to his cot. "I'll get help to move the Captain, we'll need a stretcher though so we don't injure him any further."

"Fine, just do it, he'll need someone to watch over him," d'Artagnan says, rolling off his socks, and tossing them aside, disgusted. He takes a clean cloth from the stool beside his cot and pours some water from the pitcher over the fabric and does his best to clean the smudges of blood from his feet. It's a difficult task since he is trembling and when he leans forward he pulls at the wounds in his side and he feels sharp stabs of pain. But when he's done he feels like he's accomplished something monumental and as he falls back on the cot to wait for Jacques to move Athos, it's the first time in what seems like a long while that he doesn't want to slip into oblivion and he feels hopeful.

* * *

The Musketeers mourn fifteen dead, a number that for a regiment of their size and their deep sense of brotherhood is equal to a hundred for any other company. Among the dead is Marcel and Aramis has purposely not mentioned this to d'Artagnan, who is finally showing some physical improvement although the young man's emotional state is still quite volatile, especially with Athos so grievously injured.

Lacroix and Henri had proven themselves worthy of their commissions with their bravery. If not for their courage and fortitude reinforcements from General DuBois camp would not have arrived in a timely manner and the Musketeers would surely be mourning many more dead and suffered a substantially higher number of injuries. Late in the evening, when the defeated Spaniards had finally made their retreat and the French injured had been tended to, both young Musketeers had visited their Captain in the infirmary and Athos, despite his pain and exhaustion, had taken the time to bestow his praise upon them before falling back into a restless slumber. If d'Artagnan was surprised to be on the receiving end of an awkward embrace and a string of incoherent words from Lacroix, who'd been elated to find the Gascon lucid and sitting beside his Captain, he was careful not to show it.

D'Artagnan for the most part seemed to be vastly improved one day after the attack although it worried Aramis that he still could barely keep anything in his stomach. Tomorrow Aramis is planning on introducing a bit of bread, maybe a tiny bit of stew instead of the broth they'd been feeding him but the medic acknowledges that it will be a while before the lad would be his old self again. He was simply too battered both physically and mentally to do anything more than take baby steps forward.

Porthos had found a broken chair and he'd modified it with a few nails and some extra boards so that d'Artagnan could sit comfortably beside Athos and not spend all his time lying in the cot or sitting on one the stools or barrels that made up the furniture in the infirmary. Athos had spent a very restless night, not just from the pain but plagued with nightmares of the battle and the loss of his men, mumbling and crying out until either Aramis or Porthos would calm him with their whispered words and gentle touches. More than once he'd called out for d'Artagnan who'd spent an equally restless night fighting his own demons; what Aramis called the 'tail-end' of the poison as well as the pain of the healing wounds in his side and chest that pulled and ached as the torn flesh mended itself. But the sound of Athos' voice had woken the Gascon each time he'd called his name, and even as he suffered his own ails, he'd insisted that his brothers help him up so that he too could take his turn assisting in Athos' care and his presence alone had soothed his Captain back into his uneasy slumber. Today, Athos was resting more comfortably with the help of a hefty dose of Aramis' special draught and Porthos had helped d'Artagnan take a few steps outside of the tent for the first time since he'd been injured. Aramis was careful to hide his dismay when Porthos ended up carrying d'Artagnan back into the infirmary but the lad didn't seem overly upset by it; in fact, as soon as he was lying down again he and Porthos were making plans to try again later in the day.

With Athos incapacitated and Porthos doing his best to see to both Athos and d'Artagnan an exhausted Aramis was overseeing the care of the injured as well as making all regimental decisions. The dead had been buried early in the day, with prayers said by Aramis and a heartfelt speech about bravery given by Porthos and the graves were marked carefully in the event that their families would want to move their loved ones to their own churchyards where they could be mourned properly. The burials had been sombre and painful, most of the men unabashedly shedding tears over the loss of their brothers in this senseless war. At the midday meal Aramis had led a prayer and a toast in the mess tent to all their lost and injured comrades and his words of wisdom and faith had managed to soothe even the hardest hit by grief. Sometimes Aramis wonders if it's a gift or a curse, this deep sense of faith that's kept him going all these years, because there are moments he too wants to rail at God and the heavens above for the injustices of their world, but there's always that nagging voice in his head telling him that it's not his place to question the Almighty, no matter how angry or disappointed he might be.

Late into the evening, when most of the lamps in the infirmary have been doused and the seriously injured sedated into healing sleep, Aramis sits beside d'Artagnan, who is dozing in his make-shift arm chair beside Athos and he reaches out to wake the boy, with the intention of moving him to bed. D'Artagnan startles awake and Aramis watches as a string of emotions pass his impossibly young face; physical pain, grief, and fear when his gaze flitters to their sleeping Captain.

"I heard about Marcel," d'Artagnan says his voice heavy with sadness and his thin shoulders slumped. "He was my friend, a good friend, the first I've had the misfortune to lose in the God-forsaken war. I don't know if I'm strong enough to suffer losses like these, brother, everything is a muddled mess in my head and I worry I won't have the strength to…to be who I was."

Aramis feels his heart skip a beat and his stomach clench; this is the boy he's see face down Death as if the Grim Reaper was nothing more than a pansy-arsed courtier holding a dinner fork and his words shake the medic.

"D'Artagnan, need I remind you of what you've accomplished in the past ten days alone? You blew up a wagon full of powder and survived to brag about it! You then rode miles with a ball lodged in your chest, fought a man twice your bulk while seriously injured to save your brothers and lived through yet another serious injury and a massive dose of poison, I'd say it's time to give yourself a break. You _will_ heal, and you _will_ get your strength and your confidence back and you _will_ live through this miserable war and go back to Paris to make a dozen dark-haired babies with our beloved Constance who will then torture you, brother, as you have tortured the rest of us with your antics!"

When he's done with his speech, Aramis feels winded and d'Artagnan is looking a bit shocked, but the younger man's mouth twists ever so slightly into a ghost of a smile.

"A dozen brother?" d'Artagnan says, his face morphed into a mock expression of pain.

"At least, you need to be taught a lesson," Aramis says with a relieved grin, his heart lightening.

"You know, after the duel, when I was barely able to stand but the pain had yet to hit, I remembered something," d'Artagnan says wistfully.

"What?"

"That night we rode out to find Porthos, after we rescued Constance from that maggot Rochefort, we made camp for a few hours to rest, we were simply too exhausted to continue," d'Artagnan explains carefully. "And Constance and I, well it was probably highly inappropriate with Athos and Treville present but we didn't care, and Constance and I spend those few hours sharing a bedroll, just resting, mind you, and talking, and I was simply grateful that she was alive and quite emotional to be honest," the lad admits shyly. "Anyway, that night, the sky was full of stars, and Constance was finally free and in my arms and even though we were all in danger – you still in the Chatelet, Porthos' fate unknown, the rest of us outlaws being hunted by the Red Guard, and the Queen in the gravest danger of all – but in that one moment everything faded away and Constance made me promise that no matter how bad things might get, no matter how much danger we would find ourselves in, that I would always remember that night, those few precious moments that we'd held each other close with nothing and no one standing between us for the first time since the day we'd met, and that I would draw strength from that night, from her embrace, from her love and I would do my best to prevail to honour that moment."

The day has been long and hard but the first tears that Aramis sheds are in that moment that the boy speaks of his wife, of their love and their commitment to each other and the medic unabashedly lets the tears roll silently down his face as d'Artagnan continues, but they aren't tears of sorrow, they are tears of hope; hope that they will get past these difficult moments intact, all of them, their bond as their strength, their loyalty their talisman, their love for each other their holy grail. The boy is exhausted by the time he finishes telling his tale and Aramis gently helps him to bed, covering him and fussing over him like something fragile and delicate though he knows full well the lad is made of iron and steel.

Porthos' quiet footsteps shake him out of his thoughts and Aramis quickly checks Athos for fever before passing the figurative torch to his brother.

"Their all yours, my friend, I think I need a few hours sleep, it's been a helluva day," he says succinctly, taking a few steps back from their sleeping brothers.

"It's been a helluva war, Aramis," Porthos says with a hint of a grin, and a squeeze of the medic's shoulder, "but we'll be ok, together, we'll be fine."

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

The letters that d'Artagnan had sent to Treville while recuperating after the raid as well as the news of the attack on their camp are the catalyst for orders arriving from Paris that move two additional Companies of soldiers north to the Musketeers' position. General DuBois, it's been rumoured, has also been berated by Minister Treville for leaving the King's own regiment as a buffer between his cowardly self and the enemy, a decision that the Minister said 'could only have been taken by an idiot who didn't know his arse from his elbow'. With his tail firmly between his legs, the General has no choice but to comply and along with the additional soldiers, supplies arrive as well as a long overdue chair and writing desk for Athos' use. D'Artagnan feigns innocence but Porthos knows it was the boy who'd requested the coveted furniture from Treville in one his long letters to Paris during his extended convalescence.

Winter has settled in for the duration and the Musketeers are almost as miserable as they'd been in the summer heat, but spirits are high as news of victories further north buoy their confidence. There are skirmishes almost daily now but with addition of two Companies not weighted down by injuries, the French hold their own while they wait for the order to march northward and deeper into the thick of the fighting.

Athos' recovery had been relatively quick but he is still plagued by moments of weakness since he'd suffered an infection and a few frightening days of fever. D'Artagnan's recovery though has been arduous and extremely painful for Porthos to watch. The boy is still weak, thin, and struggles to eat but he is determined and the light is back in his eyes, that glint that Porthos feared had faded for good has reappeared as has his smile. There had been moments where the big man had been worried that the lad would just give up and die but after the attack on their camp and Athos' injury something miraculous had occurred and the boy had suddenly decided that he wanted to live. To say that Porthos and the others were relieved by his change of attitude would be a massive understatement; they were elated and thankful and did everything in their power to help him recover. With Athos himself though still on the mend and busy with regimental business and Aramis exhausted by tending to the many injuries that lingered, Porthos had made it his personal mission to restore the young Gascon to his former healthy self. That meant endless hours of force feeding him like a petulant child and even more hours spent sparring – half that time spent picking the lad up from the ground, but never mind – and long nights in their shared tent listening to d'Artagnan fight the urge to be sick, something that Aramis explained would take a long while to fade since his stomach had become used to expelling whatever he consumed, a lingering effect of the cruel poison that had nearly stolen the boy away from them.

For the first time in weeks the four of them are gathered in Athos' tent discussing the events of the day, something that had been a nightly occurrence before everything had gone to hell. This evening it's Porthos lying on the Captains cot in just his breeches and shirtsleeves and d'Artagnan is fussing over his friend, his expression worried and taut.

"I'm just tired, you idiot boy, get your bony hands off me," he complains as d'Artagnan checks him for fever or any hidden injuries. Porthos though, truly _is_ exhausted and doesn't complain when the boy covers him with Athos' blanket.

"Let him fuss, Porthos, you deserve your rest, Lord knows you've taken on the lion's share of caring for these two," Aramis says wryly, indicating his two recovering brothers.

"That's true, brother, if not for you neither of us would be fit to stand on our feet, as of right now you're on leave…of your duties only of course, because I can't send you back to Paris at such a crucial moment, but I can give you a few days of doing nothing but sleeping, eating and drinking if that's any consolation," Athos tells him with a ghost of a smile.

"No thanks, he'll just end up swooning like a maiden in distress if I leave him alone for more than five minutes," Porthos says, poking his finger at the indignant d'Artagnan, "and you," he says, indicating Athos, "will probably fall of your horse and break something and leave him," he continues, pointing at Aramis, "back to running the regiment, and making us pray again, at every muster and at every meal."

That last quip brings a round of laughter from all of them, a sound that hasn't filled their ears in a very long time. Athos looks much healthier, Porthos notes gratefully and d'Artagnan, well at least he's trying. Aramis, who normally has the constitution of a bull is weary but thankfully well, and Porthos knows his own malaise will pass with a good night's sleep. They are at war, and away from Paris and Constance and Treville, and of course their beloved Queen, Porthos adds to himself with a quick glance at Aramis, but they're together and they're mostly whole and Porthos has been taught to count his blessings.

It's with that thought and the sound of his brothers' laughter that Porthos allows himself to relax and put aside his worries and fears for the moment, and feel hopeful that soon this blasted war will be over and they will return to the Garrison where they belong and all will be as it was and as it should be. With that hope in his heart, Porthos sighs and slides contented into a much deserved peaceful and dreamless sleep.

The End

NOTES: Thanks you all for reading, reviewing and being patient while I cleaned up this mess of a story! I'm sure I will go back and edit the entire thing again at some point but there will be no plot changes or any glaring edits, just a few tweaks here and there where I've made spelling or grammatical errors or mistakes in the timeline. In the meanwhile I've begun an unrelated story that takes place before 'Through a glass darkly', before d'Artagnan's epic declaration and offer to sacrifice himself, so it'll be mostly the lads getting into trouble and whumped and all that. I probably won't post it though until I finish or at least mostly finish posting my Spies!au at AO3, which is called 'Lonely winds will call my name' and is the first if a two-part series in that verse. I can't post it here due to explicit sexual content (Constagnan) but you can find it under the same pen-name at the Ao3 archive. Thanks again!


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